


Thee and Me

by heylittleriotact



Series: Endless Possibilities [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Lots of spirit stuff, Post-Post-Trespasser, bring on the end of the world, more to be added as i get better tagging ideas, post-character death, resurrection... sort of?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-08-14 21:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8029723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylittleriotact/pseuds/heylittleriotact
Summary: Though she has been dead for months now, there is talk of strange occurrences happening at the abandoned fortress known as Skyhold - for those brave enough to visit the ruin, there appears to be no shortness of oddities nestled in the silent snow. People are starting to talk - as people do - of a woman who roams the Thedosian country side, imparting kindnesses and help to those who need it most.Some say she looks like the elf who was Inquisitor, but those people are almost instantly shushed by their friends and cut off from drinking any more ale. Naturally when Solas learns of the existence of this strange woman, he can't help but be intrigued:Unfortunately, he's not the only one.





	1. Prologue

The funeral had been a small, low-key affair with few in attendance.

With clan Lavellan also gone, it fell to the remainder of the Inquisition to handle her interment: There had been much deliberation and arguing about what manner of burial befit the former Inquisitor, but eventually it was agreed upon that a traditional elven burial in the gardens at Skyhold would be most appropriate: It was her last home, and the home of the family she had during her time with the Inquisition.

She wouldn’t be disturbed - the fortress had become little more than a still ruin cut out against the Frostbacks.

The Inner Circle reunited for the last time on a cold spring morning in order to bid their friend goodbye.

The event was solemn and brief, and though smiles were feigned and hugs exchanged between the closest members of the Inquisition, there remained a pervasive sense of distrust in the air - many of them; such as Blackwall, Cullen, and Josephine had no idea that El’una had even been ill: Her death came as a shock.

Others, such as Dorian and Leliana seemed to the others to be just a little bit _too_ sad.

Cole was nowhere to be seen.

Questions unanswered, they said their farewells to El’una and to each other, and returned to their respective destinies.

* * *

 

The months following were calm and peaceful. Thedas was rebuilding efficiently following the actions of Corypheus, and though borders remained tightly patrolled and soldiers remained ready for war at a moment’s notice, all seemed quiet regarding the Qunari threat that had so brazenly threatened the Empire over a year previous.

Skyhold itself fell into further abandonment and disrepair as it seemed to accept its fate as a lonely mausoleum to the elven woman who slept in its garden: Few bothered to venture up the Frostbacks in order to pass through her gates - enemies and friends alike could not be bothered to make the treacherous journey for the most part.

Every now and then a group of intrepid explorers or pilgrims would brave the frozen valley and embark upon the ruin, only to find that it was exactly that - cold, empty, dusty, and possibly haunted by more than just the residual memories of thousands of people.

Some returned with unnerving tales of massive wild hounds stalking the grounds; their fur matted and long, their appearances starved and savage.

Others claimed to have seen the ghost of a woman comparable in likeness to the Inquisitor: Some said she would sometimes be seen sitting in the garden, covered in snow. In some variations of the story, she was little more than a glimpse of long hair and a burial gown as she seemed to realize she was being watched and disappeared around a pillar or corner, a curious jingling sound following in her wake.

Strangest of all were those who returned who had not seen any of these things, but instead insisted they had an generally unremarkable experience in the ruin - perhaps the only really odd occurrence being that they found a letter from their mother they thought they had lost in their pack while searching for a flint, or even that they just felt oddly good upon entering the place despite its appearance: It may have been a silent shamble on a mountain, but Maker forgive them if just standing in the empty hall filled them with some sort of _hope_ or something.

Aside from that though… it was just an empty building.

Nothing more. 


	2. Chapter 2

She crashes through the brush towards the distant light in the darkness before her, gritting her teeth as each step drives fresh peals of pain through her side; her hand is clenched over the wound and her fingers are warm with blood, though the rest of her feels icy cold.

A strangled cry pulls from her lips as her foot sinks into the hollowness of a rodent den of some sort and she is flung to the ground, falling face first into the long grass. Staggering to her feet, she continues towards her goal, hobbling rather than running now.

The wound bleeds freely.

Sure, the wyvern got her pretty nastily on the shoulder, but the injury that would kill her came from the steel of the people whom she had hoped to save from the beast.

* * *

 

“The very next words to leave your mouth shall be what we drink to!”

The barmaid looks around a bit self-consciously and then says, “Freshly donned socks?”

“To freshly donned socks!” Findos booms, and his company raises their mugs with him, echo him, and then mirror him as he drains his ale in a single go.

The barmaid shakes her head bemusedly and then scampers off to fetch more libations for her guests; it has been a busy night for her.

Findos’ eyes watch after her, though not lecherously - he appreciates the hospitality of the maid and her kin, and is only slightly surprised that she’s still on her feet and shows no sign of tiring.

The chevalier glances around at his company, ever-present and always mindful of his current status and situation: They had all been drinking heavily since dusk, and the younger fellows were truly beginning to show it - Lacroix was singing as if he fancied himself to be a bard, and a group of three of his subordinates had pulled aside to start their own drinking game.

It was perfectly simple; were the room to become compromised suddenly, the table a yard behind his left shoulder would be toppled as a makeshift barrier, his sword would be drawn - no: Not in close quarters like these - dagger instead; the one tucked into his boot - his own men would rise to the call, and as the enemy filed in through the narrow door, they would be picked off one by one.

He feels his knuckles clench and hears the blood rush in his ears as the scenario paints itself a bit too vividly in his mind.

If they set the place alight instead though… lobbed fire through the doors and windows with the hope of burning them all to death - well then it would become a mission of casualty control; get everyone out who can be removed and do so without running straight into the blades of the enemy.

He looks around, wondering how such a thing might be accomplished in a place like this.

“Ser?” A concerned voice pulls him from his reverie and he looks over the bar at the barmaid, whose wide blue eyes are fraught with something stuck between concern and annoyance.

“Another round, yes.” He responds, getting her meaning. “And a round of whiskey for the men and I.” He adds.

The barmaid flushes slightly and her eyes tilt downwards. “I’m afraid we don’t carry liquor comparable to the standard I’m sure you and your men are accustomed to.”

“And what would you know of my standards?” Findos asks, not unkindly: He is well aware of the repute of chevaliers across Thedas, let alone the repute of a battalion of chevaliers occupying a small inn in rural Ferelden. “What you have will suffice.” He is turning from the bar, about to rebuke a pair of greener men who have taken to stabbing their boot-knives into the surface of the table they sit at: They know better than this; destroying their host’s property is as lacking in honour as it is unseemly to the eyes.

His mouth opens, but any sound that leaves it is overwhelmed by the crashing open of the tavern door, and the loud thud that accompanies the body that tumbles through as their form immediately collapses on the floor.

“At arms!” The order is bellowed without hesitation, and in a fluid moment, Findos’ belt-dagger is snapped into his hand while all around him his men are drawing steel and raising shields to create a tight perimeter around the potential threat - blood roars in his ears as he immediately sets to deducing the best course of action; one clear threat - entered through the door - made no attempt to be stealthy; may be an ambush.

A cursory glance around the tavern reveals the barmaid’s crown of light brown hair just visible over the top of the bar she is crouched behind, and a few chairs have been stood from by the handful of other patrons in the place as they look on in concern, uncertain of whether they should prepare for fight or flight.

Flight; always flight for civilians.

“To the larder, all of you!” Findos orders, looking around and clanging the butt of his dagger against a nearby shield when people do not start making moves quickly enough. “Is my accent to thick for you to understand? Get moving!”

The barmaid lights from her place first and quietly dashes to the grouped patrons, whispering, “This way, follow me,” before vanishing around a blind corner, her customers in tow.

With the issue of bystanders taken care of, Findos dictates his attention to the form on the floor that has made no marked effort at rising since landing there. Amongst the overwhelming thrum of blood-rush in his ears, there is the sound of armoured fingers flexing and plate scraping quietly against itself as his men wait for his order: With a word he could have this person killed on the spot.

The fact that the only movements they make appear to be incredibly pained stays both his hand and his tongue: A chevalier does not slay an unarmed foe, nor does he kill without cause. This person; clothed in blacks and browns from head to foot is doing nothing more than feebly coiling on the floor, their left arm is folded beneath them, gripping their side, which draws Findos’ eyes to a dark and quickly spreading stain on the worn wood.

“You are wounded.” He observes, clearly directing his words to the figure. “Identify yourself, and we will render aid.” The offer is put on the table, but neither he nor his men lower their guard.

The figure stirs, groans - emits a small whimper as it cringes again and its dark hood slips down, revealing its - her - face. There is also a grinding sound, and Findos notices the sheath of the longsword belted to the woman’s hip, protruding from under her legs and the fabric of her cloak.

Sound dims and fades around him as everything else in the world melts away except for the weapon that could be used against him and his men.

“Your weapon!” He snaps. “Surrender it immediately, rabbit! Chevaliers - _Griffin Bleeds the Wyrm_!”

At his words, the circle around the woman shifts as each chevalier raises his sword and angles his shield downwards in a combative stance instead of the defensive position they had held previously.

The elf mutters something strained and raises a shaking and bloodied hand from the floor, leaning heavily on her other elbow as she struggles to rise.

“The weapon!” Findos repeats harshly, his heartbeat calm despite the elven woman’s lack of heed. When her outstretched fingertips glow faintly, he holds his ground but orders his men back a pace with but the slightest of signals that declares that this indeed a mage they are faced with.

The glowing hand twitches in the air, clenches, and then falls limp to the floor; still, along with the rest of the woman.

Findos wastes no time worrying about how unconscious she is; she is unconscious enough. With a large pace and a deft movement he rolls the elf onto her back and unbuckles the sword belt with practiced fingers. Ripping the article aside, he tosses it without warning to one of his men who catches the blood-slicked weapon with ease: Always disarm the enemy as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

“An apostate from the city.” Lacroix notes from behind him. “She ruined our evening.”

Findos looks over his shoulder at his fellow chevalier. “So she did.”

Lacroix chucks up on his sword-grip and stares hotly at the pale and bare-faced woman before them. “Not long for the world, this one - mercy, Commander.”

Findos jerks his gaze back to the woman. Her sweat-dampened hair clings to her forehead and a line of blood is slowly tracing its way from her lips down her chin. The blood no longer rushes in his ears, but he finds no sense of conclusion in the scene that meets his eyes: He knows this face. He has fought alongside this woman before; back when she was known as The Inquisitor. Back in the final push against that Tevinter abomination in the Arbor Wilds.

He pushes aside a lock of hair with his thumb to get a better look - just to be sure: Indeed her face is mysteriously blank where it bore the strange tattoos of the Dalish before, but he is certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is El’una Lavellan.

Odd, he surmises, considering word had spread that she died over six months previous.

“This is no renegade apostate.” He tells Lacroix, standing in a smooth movement and replacing his dagger in his belt. “This is The Inquisitor.”

There is a flutter of disbelieving murmurs that sweep through his battalion , and Lacroix shakes his head but he follows Findos’ suit and sheathes his weapon. “This is impossible! You know as well as I: She died of the city illness some time ago!”

“Have your eyes failed you as well as your brain, chevalier?” Findos snaps, indicating the woman on the floor with a purposeful wave. “For here she lies; not dead, but nearly.”

“I don’t trust it ser.” One of his men pipes up, shifting from foot to foot, the fight in him clearly not yet subsided. “This could be the deception of some demon.”

Findos stares again at the woman surrounded by an ever-expanding pool of red: If the call was not made soon, the rumours about her would most certainly become unarguable truth. He cannot make it out clearly from here, but the source of the bleeding appears to be somewhere around the middle-left of her abdomen - he knows there to a be trove of vital organs situated in this area of the body, and depending on what caused the bleeding, it could already be too late.

He cannot help but agree with the man who had spoken up; the sudden and random appearance of a supposedly dead woman is not something that bodes well in any situation. The Inquisitor, a mage in life, left a bloody legacy in her wake, and there’s no saying exactly what a woman like that may have stirred up within the Fade. Killing her on the spot would almost certainly be the _wisest_ course of action.

Honour swings its incorporeal club into the side of his head, and he is reminded of that battle fought so long ago in that strange elven ruin: Not only had The Inquisitor been a frightfully capable mage, but she bore considerable talent with a blade as well - fighting at her side and falling into the battle-rhythm of comrades remained one of the most exhilarating moments of Findos’ career to date - even if she was a knife-ear.

To snuff her life out like a guttering candle now would be an unforgivable betrayal.

As for the potential of this being nothing more than an abomination… he has a good company. If it came down to it, such a beast would be little more than a trifle to handle.

Mind made up, he calls to the company medic, “Henri!” He orders. “Work your magic; I was with you in Val Foret - you’ve patched up worse.”

Already prepared, Henri pushes through the circle and kneels beside the elf, placing a bedroll beneath her head and pressing a mass of clean linen to the wound at her side. Before it disappears under the white cloth, Findos is able to make out the clean split in her leather armor; the claws and fangs of a beast or a nasty fall onto a broken fence-post or some other such thing would have torn or pierced the leather: This wound was clearly made by some sort of edge weapon like a knife or a sword.

He gestures at his men, indicating they are free to go back to their drinks, and as shields are slung over backs and swords sheathed, Findos stays put, silently watching as Henri flips open his field kit and locates the tools he requires with a practiced ease. He supposes he could go to the back and retrieve the barmaid and the patrons, but decides against it when with a few lightning quick snips with the surgical scissors in his hand, Henri cuts a large path up The Inquisitor’s side and peels the sticky leather away from her skin, baring the majority of the left side of her midriff.

A less experienced man might turn away in an effort to preserve the female’s modesty, but Findos has seen enough battlefield surgeries to know that his aid may be required at any moment by his medic, be it to staunch bleeding, fetch clean rags, or hold the patient down due to fits of pain that cause their body to tense and flail and interfere with the precise work Henri must complete: Now is not the time to redden like a young lad who’s caught sight of his first tit.

This being the case, Henri barely turns his head in Findos’ direction and says, “More rags,” before returning his attention to the source of the bleeding. Without a glance he tosses the sopping red wad of dressing in his hand at Findos who catches it and without question crosses to the bar where his own field kit is: He could use some of the rags heaped neatly behind the bar, but not trusting their cleanliness, he opts to use his own.

“Alcohol?” He shouts over to Henri when his eyes catch on the all but forgotten bottle of whiskey on the bar.

“I have my own.” Henri scoffs derisively. “I’ll not put that swill on a wound this deep: Not if you want her alive.”

By the time he obtains the clean rags and returns to Henri, the clear and unmistakable scent of pure alcohol hangs in the air around the elf. With fingers that could be described as impatient almost, Henri rips the rags from Findos’ hands: If Henri had been anything less than the best damn medic he’d ever served with, Findos would consider rebuking the man for his insubordination, but instead lets it slide, crouching on the other side of the woman, his back to the door - a poor position strategically, he registers, but one that must be taken if he wishes to remain at the disposal of his medic while still giving him ample room to work.

He watches as Henri douses the clear alcohol carefully over the wound, washing away as much blood as he can so that he might get a better picture of how to staunch it and whether it hit anything truly vital. Findos feels his eyebrows lower when she does not stir at the stinging wash of liquid in the wound; he’s had his own wounds stitched up by Henri before, and he is quite familiar with the strength of the alcohol he prefers to use: A conscious person would be a ball of quaking muscles and bit back screams.

He sees the muscles around the wound flutter and clench slightly, but her eyes stay shut and her jaw remains slack.

Not good.

“Thoughts?” He finally asks Henri, who is now carefully dabbing around the wound with an alcohol soaked rag; it does not appear to be bleeding as heavily. Findos doesn’t cringe when Henri rips off his right glove with his teeth, douses his hand in alcohol and carefully inserts a probing finger into the wound, gently pulling it aside and testing it for deepness.

Findos has seen Henri do this before: if his index finger sinks in deeper than his second knuckle, The Inquisitor would surely not see the light of morning.

Luckily the finger stops just short of the bend in his first knuckle and Henri sits back to wipe the sweat from his brow with his left forearm. “I can save her.” He declares, wasting no time on elaboration and instead draws a curved needle and a bobbin of fine silk thread from his kit. The needle is thread with more swift and surety than a master seamstress, and Henri sets to pushing it through the elf’s skin without delay.

As always, Findos finds himself in awe of the man’s efficiency and collected nature as he sets about the grisly task of sewing a person back together as if they were a tattered set of trousers. All chevaliers are subject to intense training that teach them mental clarity and calm even in the most demanding of situations, but he has known Henri since they were both lads, and he has _always_ taken mental clarity and calm to a completely new level: He supposes one must if it is their duty on a chaotic battlefield to stuff the guts of a fallen comrade back inside of them and pinch them shut so they can be transported back to camp before they expire.

Before any considerable length of time has passed, Henri is clipping the silk and pouring another measure of alcohol over the stitched wound before gently wiping it dry and finding a jar of poultice in his kit. The lid is unscrewed and carefully set aside and the fragrant paste is spread over the wound.

“I will need your assistance, ser.” Henri mutters, finding a fresh roll of linen strip and tugging at the end. “I’ll need you to sit her up so I can bind the wound.”

Findos nods and scoots closer, ignoring the blood that is beginning to soak through the gaps of his greaves.

He gets a good grip under the woman’s shoulders and pulls her to a sitting position, careful to keep her back straight and most of her weight in his arms rather than dead - should she fold on herself, Henri’s work with the silk would be all undone. This is considerably easier with a small, light woman clad in leathers: He is accustomed to performing this sort of assistance with a burden composed of hard muscle and heavy plate armor.

Henri passes the linen around the woman’s bare abdomen half a dozen times and pins it to itself before clipping it with his scissors. A nod from the man tells Findos it is okay to return her to the floor, which he does gently.

“We’ll need to move her: I am certain the proprietor of this inn would not take kindly to us leaving a bloodied knife-ear right inside his front door for patrons to trip on.” Henri says, washing his hands with alcohol again and drying them on a clean rag. “You’ll be handling her room and board I trust, ser?”

“She can repay me.” Findos says, unable to remove his eyes from the still form of the woman who was Inquisitor: The more he thinks about it, the more certain he is that it was not merely a rumour that she had died: He had been passed by for the opportunity to accompany Empress Celene as her personal guard to the elf’s public memorial hosted in Val Royeax - likely due to his previous years of service under Grand Duke Gaspard: The Empress to this day was choosier than ever about whose hands she decided to place her life in.

But here she is: Drenched in blood and clinging to life, but by no means a worm-eaten corpse buried in dirt.

Logic clashes with reality and undeniable evidence, and truth be told; it is making his head hurt. Regardless, his duty comes first, and there is no doubt in his mind that Celene would seek to know the same answers as he. What does he do? Take her to the Empress? It seems the most rational next step...

With this in mind, Findos hoists Lavellan from the ground, mindful of her wound and careless of the hoots and hollers that float his way when his men catch sight of him carrying an unconscious elf bridal-style towards the stairs that lead to the rooms of the tavern; chevaliers or not, they are men.

It is a quick flight up the stairs; the woman doesn’t weigh much, and she is unburdened by pack and gear aside from the sword he took from her earlier - and the observation strikes him as odd as he rises the stairs; what person, even a Dalish elf, travels without bedroll, pack, and rations? No staff either, despite clearly being a mage. Why?

Questions to be asked later, he decides, and he lowers her onto the feather bed that was his until about half an hour ago: He’ll kip on the floor nearby. In the event that she wakes in the middle of the night, it’d be best to have someone posted, and he doesn’t quite trust that she’ll be cognizant enough to register her stitches before she rips them out and bleeds to death.

He arranges her on the bed, tugs away the remaining scraps of her leather bodice, feeling equally as indifferent about her half-naked torso as he had when Henri had first bared her skin: She couldn’t be expected to sleep in tattered, blood-stiff leather. Besides, the wound needs to breathe, and given the choice between preserving her modesty and giving her the best chance at survival, the conclusion is an obvious one: Bloodied breast-band or not, at this point she is nothing more than another wounded soldier under his care. He props her up on the pillows, makes sure her head is tilted to the side, and covers her as best he can without smothering the wound on her side.

With her taken care of, he strips away the silverite plate that adorns his body and arranges it carefully against the wall. His sword is hung from the bedpost and his bedroll is unfurled over the hard floor; it will not be a comfortable sleep, but he is more accustomed to hard ground than soft mattresses anyway: He can sleep anywhere.

Stripped now to his trousers and jerkin, he sheds the leather vest as well and snuffs the lanterns in the room before kicking off his boots and sliding between the layers of his bedroll, making sure his boot-knife is close at hand.

Silence and darkness take the room, punctuated only by the shallow breathing of the elf and the occasional roar of laughter from his men downstairs; glasses chink from time to time and mugs thud and bawdy jokes trickle upwards through the thin floorboards and Findos wills his fatigued mind to sleep.

When he opens his eyes again it is still dark outside; the stars hang brightly in the sky and rarely seen celestial light dances amongst them, green and blue and violet.

He gazes around blearily and his eyes land on the empty bed illuminated by the wan light of the cosmos.

She has gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read Masked Empire around the time I started assembling ideas for this story, and chevaliers really struck a chord with me: We saw more of them in Inquisition than ever before, but I found myself really wanting to focus on their way of life and this "honour" that they are so bound by. 
> 
> There's also not a TON of lore regarding them, so a lot of stuff I'm totally making up as I go.


	3. Chapter 3

He scrambles to his feet, disentangling himself from his bed roll and sprinting from the room, pausing only to grab his sword from the bedpost. He buckles it around himself and over his shoulder as he makes long strides down the hallway.

“Platoon awake!” He roars into the darkness, pounding on doors as he passes them. “The elf has escaped!”

He does not wait for signs of movement from the rooms, but instead jogs down the stairs into the darkened tavern: All of the lanterns have been snuffed, the room tidied, and the only source of light is the insubstantial and silver light of the moon streaming in through the windows on the west side of the building.

Something is off about this situation, though he is unable to place a finger on precisely what it is.

It may be the utter silence that overwhelms the night, or it may be the fact that the tavern despite being tidy, was certainly not this tidy earlier in the day when they arrived: It is as though every beam, post and floorboard is newly installed; clean and unworn. He feels his fingers tighten around the grip of his sword, and once again the blood roars in his ears, a steady rhythm of controlled rage.

It occurs to him that up above he can hear no footsteps or scuffling; no indication that any of his men have risen to his call.

Something is very wrong.

A lesser man might jump when the door of the tavern breaks the silence for the second time that night when it reels on its hinges and crashes against the wall due to a gust of wind, Findos replies with the ringing sound of steel being drawn.

“Where are you, elf?!” He demands of the night, inching closer to the open door. “I know you’re there!”

Silence answers him, and he finds himself - against all better judgement - drawn to the opening.

He steps out into the well-lit night, only vaguely registering that he has not seen a night where the stars shone so clearly since he was a lad. He looks down at the dusty earth at his feet, and sees fresh, bare footprints leading off around the corner of the inn and towards the small orchard owned by the establishment.

Still concerned about the lack of response from his men, Findos decides to push on without them: If the elf had snuck silently into their rooms as they drunkenly slept and slit their throats, returning now would do little to assuage the problem. Besides, if she was that stealthy, she would also likely assume his return to investigate the scene - a perfect trap. He would surely be better off in the open.

Unfortunately, trees provide cover and fly in the face of everything that ‘open’ entails. The terrain, however is not hilly, and so worrying about the elf having the high-ground advantage is one less thing he needs to consider.

He sets off towards the orchard, following footsteps that are evenly paced and suggest a comfortable, strong gait: Evidence that does not suggest a near-fatally wounded woman made them.

Rather than feel fear at this observation, he merely adjusts his grip on his sword and prepares for a closed-quarters fight. For once he is thankful he did not bring his shield; it would have only slowed him down in the tight proximity of trees and served to hinder him rather than help.

“Inquisitor!” He challenges, stepping into the trees and turning slowly as he progresses, never giving his enemy an opportunity for a clean flank attack. “It is good to see you are up and about, but I insist that you return with me to the inn at once!”

Wind rustles leaves, and the scent of fermenting fruit fills his nostrils. The starlight dances through the boughs diligently and El’una Lavellan does not answer him.

He is getting angry now: He showed this elf mercy, had her wounds dealt with, and rendered her more hospitality than many would - although she saved the world from the threat of the Veil, she made a vast amount of enemies in doing so. He protected her from his men - men that would kill her and discard her like rubbish.

Findos does not take well to being slighted.

“Answer me you knife-eared bitch! Do you think this is a game?” He bellows, his mind roaring with bloodlust - tremulously tethered and kept at bay like a wild and untamed beast. He turns again and is faced with a small clearing stocked with barrels and baskets and a wagon.

The elf stares at him placidly from the center of the open space. Starlight dances in her open eyes.

“There is no need to yell,” She says calmly. “Not unless shouting your throat raw is your singular aim tonight.”

He feels a muscle in his jaw twitch; did the elf just insult him?

“What have you done to my men?” Findos demands, entering the clearing and keeping the elf at the point of his sword as he slowly circles her. Once again, it occurs to him that something is incredibly wrong with this situation: The elf bears no physical signs of going through the ordeal from earlier. Her skin is healthy, colourful, and clean. Her hair is unbound and brushed, falling in dark waves to her waist, and she is garbed in a filmy silk gown the colour of moonlight that flutters along the grass at her feet, even when there is no wind.

“I have done nothing to your men.” She answers, her gaze briefly caressing the length of steel pointed at her before she anchors her focus on his own eyes. “They slumber peacefully… as do you.”

“Slumber?” Findos repeats, allowing his eyes to slide from hers for only a brief glance of his very real surroundings. “You mean to tell me I’m dreaming?”

El’una Lavellan looks at him and her lips quirk ever so slightly upward. “No. _I’m_ dreaming. You were merely invited along.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Findos snaps, flexing his fingers around his sword.

Lavellan does not seem at all harried by his obvious discontent, and instead steps from her static place in the center of the clearing, holding up a hand as she almost absent-mindedly fabricates a wildflower from thin air.

“The last time you saw a night sky this alive was when you were a lad of no more than nine summers. You would spend your summer nights out on the grounds of the family estate, sleeping under the stars, staring at them, and dreaming of knowing why they hung in the sky, so silent and still despite the obvious power and age behind them.” She matches his circle now, and her hair is tossed lightly when she glances at him, once more meeting his eyes with her own: He cannot deny the discomfort caused by the display that exists within them. “So many nights you snuck out of your shared barracks at the _Acadamie_ to steal onto the roof and ponder the stars. Their immensity and wonder kept you going, even on the most discouraging and hardship filled days.”

Reminded of the fact that this may be a demon and not the Inquisitor at all, Findos does not drop his guard, nor does he stop circling the woman who has just imparted an intimate truth known to no one but himself.

Demons did things like that.

“You are not the Inquisitor,” He states. “You are a demon.”

The wry smile on Lavellan’s face stretches further and she pauses, holding out the wildflower _en guarde_ towards him as if she might parry his sword with it if the occasion arose.

“Is that what you see?” She asks quietly, amber eyes boring into his own. “That which is dreamt is built on intent and individual interpretation. I must agree that you are in fact half right in your observation: Spirits are ever-malleable to the whims of a Dreamer.”

“You speak in riddles.” Findos accuses.

“I forget myself.” Lavellan corrects, still holding her flower aloft like a blade. “This is a strange and unfamiliar world, and it is easy to forget that you are only a man.” She holds his gaze and he is sure that he has not seen her blink yet. “I wanted to give you my thanks for aiding me in the Waking. I am not yet strong enough to do so physically, so I thought that the Fade would be an acceptable alternative - it seemed a safe alternative: The most recent occasion of my altruism resulted in my with a dagger in my gut. _Gut_ \- what a ridiculous contraption to possess.”

“I refuse to accept this.” Findos counters, mentally verifying for the thousandth time that it is indeed the visage of El’una Lavellan before him; the same that sleeps in his bed at the inn. “I know you. I knew El’una Lavellan - briefly perhaps, and only so far as names go, but I fought at her side in The Arbour Wilds and most importantly, I know her to be dead. It is impossible to stand before me now! What plays before my eyes is a trick and a falsification, so name yourself, creature - before my patience runs out!”

“Drop the sword.” The phantom of the Inquisitor commands. “This self-indulgent pantomime of you pointing it at me is getting boring.”

He does, though it is not a conscious, fluid action: It is as though he had been holding it one second; his fingers fitting comfortably into the well-worn grooves of the grip, and the next moment, it was on the grassy earth and his fingers clenched naught but air.

“Do not pick it up.” She commands as soon as the thought to do so enters his mind. “Your concern is well placed, Chevalier, but it is not necessary.”

“What are you?” He demands, mentally running through every exercise, every stance, every position he knows that may give him an edge against this… whatever _it_ is.

“You know my face?” She asks instead, ignoring his question in favour of her own. “We’ve met before?”

“You know this just as well as I. My regiment served side-by-side with you in The Arbour Wilds. I personally pushed an enemy bowman onto your sword.” Findos grinds out. Sure the Inquisitor had seen thousands of faces and met many people, but forgetting the face and name of a brother in arms was a shameful slight that rankled him deeply.

“I see. And your name?” She asks, even further irritating him with her seemingly effortless line of questioning.

“Ser Astor Gentry Findos.” He growls, “Chevalier. Son of Marquis Edgard Findos of Lydes.” He almost roars when the woman continues to stare unblinkingly at him, no level of recognition playing in her wide, elven eyes.

“Well met, Astor Gentry Findos.” She says, dropping the arm holding the flower to her side. “I am El’una Lavellan.”

“You’re not!” Findos retorts, eyes darting briefly to the sword still on the grass. “The true Inquisitor would have remembered my name - my face at the very least!”

She looks at him with some mix of confusion and repulsion mixed on her face. “You people certainly do get worked up and loud when you’re uncomfortable, don’t you?”

“You would dare insult me, demon?” Findos snarls, taking a bold and bare-handed step towards the elf.

Curiously though, he discovers he has not closed the distance any.

He takes another step, and then another, and a dozen more, and despite his effort, he is no closer to the elf that stands only a few yards away from him.

“Please stop calling me that.” She requests calmly. “I understand your confusion, Ser Findos, but shouting at me in this place is not going to make it go away. I realize now that it is haunting for you to be conversing in the Fade with a woman you knew personally and that you know to be dead. I will put your mind at ease and admit to the fact that the El’una Lavellan that sleeps in the earth and the El’una Lavellan that sleeps in the bed nearby are not one and the same.” The flower is waved dismissively through the air and she says, “Mortal flesh is weak and impermanent, but the spirit is composed of much stronger stuff: The world may have finished with El’una Lavellan, but she was in no way finished with it. This reality called into question my own willingness to be involved in that which remains - she called, I answered. We work towards the same goal, she and I, thus it seemed most appropriate that in order to best lend the aid this world so desperately requires, I assumed her form.” The flower is once again held out to him, though this time in a gesture of giving. Unblinking eyes seem to glow faintly; the same golden, star-like light that had briefly flared into being around her hand before she had fainted in the Waking.

It makes him think of the sun, this curious light.

“Pleased to meet you, Ser Findos, and again - my thanks for your aid. As I said, this world is strange to me, and I failed to consider the consequences of my basic compulsions: It is in my nature to intervene where there is despair and replace it with something much more… hopeful.”

“What precisely happened to you? You were attacked with a blade, that much is clear, but the leather on your shoulder was scrapped and there was the unmistakeable scent of beast saliva in the air around you.”

Lavellan’s eyes flick up and to the left, and she seems to be sorting through her memory in an effort to recover specific details.

“A hamlet not sixty leagues from here had been plagued by a terrible beast for months now; it had been snatching their infants in the night, and spoiling their crops with its excrement. I passed through the hamlet and learned this, as well as the fact that all of the strong young men who had disappeared into the wilds with the promise of besting the creature, had failed to return - the hamlet was one or two people short of becoming a death-camp where old men and young mothers sat with their remaining children and waited for the chill of winter to arrive, and the food to run out.

The despondency was palpable, and though they did not ask me for help, I sought out the beast regardless: I could not return these people’s dead to them, but I could slay the wyvern and at least give them some chance at rebuilding for the winter without the fear of the monster that had robbed them of so much already.”

“That does not explain the injury which nearly killed you.”

Her hand drifts to her side, clutching at the space where her abdomen had been torn open. Her eyes seem to dim slightly, and they lower to the side.

“Observance of this world and the dreams of those who occupy it does not equal understanding; I am something feared in this world - I learned that today. The people of the hamlet did not take well to a stranger in their midst, returning from a battle with a monster that would normally require a dozen men to best. I brought back with me the most recent young man who had endeavoured to kill the wyvern; he had been at its nest, badly wounded and clinging to life, but alive all the same.

In one hand I clutched the head of the wyvern, and over my shoulder I held the form of their man.” Her eyes close, and her voice becomes tight as she continues to recount her experience; it as though the memory causes her pain.

“They gathered outside when they spotted me from a distance. They circled around me, their faces full of confusion and fear that gave way to shock when they saw they wyvern’s head in my grip. I dropped it on the ground, and set the young man to the earth. I told them he was not lost.” She pauses for a moment, seemingly choosing the right words. “His mother ran forward at the sight of him - fell to her knees next to him with a piercing cry. Her hands shook as they ghosted over the deep wounds in his trunk and her eyes filled with tears as they took in the dried blood that coated him.

This is not what I wanted.

I wanted there to be hope and momentum - not further despair and pain.

So I healed him: It took no more than an instant and but a thought - his skin closed and became whole and colour returned to his cheeks; breath to his lungs.”

Shaking his head slightly, Findos glances to the side. “They did not like this display of magic, I assume?”

“It was not magic, it was _me_. It was the very essence of myself that compelled me to spare that boy - I could not have walked away and left him to die.”

“That’s why we have field surgeons in war, not apostates.” Findos quips. “Less likely to get run through by an overly superstitious peasant for sewing someone back together.” He shifts his weight from side to side and rests his hand on his belt. “I can perceive the rest of the events that followed - you were mobbed, there were likely torches and pitchforks, and those you sought to help turned on you in the worst possible way.”

“Precisely.”

Findos is silent for a moment, but when he speaks, he speaks with no air of jollity: “What did you learn?”

Without him even thinking it was possible, the elf straightens further, seemingly adding to her height (which now that he thinks on it, is uncommonly impressive for an elf.)

“Nothing.” She states. “It is in my nature to bring that lad back from the verge of death every time I encounter him. It is not so easy for us spirits to _choose_ things.”

“And just what sort of spirit are you meant to be, pray tell?”

“Time seems to matter a lot to you people, so in terms you’d understand - an old one. If you are to put a name to what I am, I suppose the closest thing would be Hope.”

Findos cannot help but scoff at the very idea. “Ridiculous,” he points out. “Now I know for certain you are a demon - there is no record in Andrastian, Tevinter, or even bloody Qunari history of a spirit of Hope appearing in the world.”

The woman shrugs, seemingly unmoved by his doubt. “I think I’ve presented enough evidence. Whether you choose to believe it or not comes down to a matter of faith, Ser Findos - and I am not a spirit of that ilk so I certainly can’t illuminate you any further. What you choose to believe is of little consequence - what you do with this knowledge when you awake is a different question altogether - do I have reason to believe you will cause me harm?”

Findos considers this question; it is not one delivered out of meekness or fear, but rather slithers from the woman’s lips like the veiled threat that it is.

“That depends.” He decides. “You mention you are here to finish the work of the Inquisitor, but as of yet have not enlightened me to what said work entails: If it is some dark design, then yes - I will be forced to uphold my vows and ensure no harm comes to the Empress, nor her lands, nor her people.”

“An answer I find agreeable.” Lavellan claims. “I would hate to have to keep you here, trapped in an unending nightmare - unwakeable for the rest of your days.”

She claims to be Hope, but the words imply a curious solemnity behind the mask of placid thought she wears.

“Threatening me will not force me to come to heel, spirit.” He insists. “Answer my query.”

She looks upwards once again, and the calm, celestial ceiling above them is replaced by a sky that is angry and vivid green. Lightning arcs above them, and the wind in the pristine clearing rises till it is tearing at their clothes and hair.

“I’m to complete the task El’una Lavellan was unable to see to the end - I’m to save the world of course. It has come to my attention that a wolf seeks to devour it.”

“A wolf?” Findos repeats, raising his voice against the wind. “More elven fables in an effort to justify further bloodshed? Has it not occurred to you that the rest of us in this world have little care for your internal squabbles over dead gods?”

“That’s precisely the problem, Astor - may I call you Astor? - the gods are quite alive, and they will be very, very angry if The Wolf succeeds in his machinations: You will be forced to have care for this _squabble_ if you aspire to survive it.”

“You’re trying to tell me that ancient elven gods are real, and that the most hated figure in your - or rather elven - pantheon walks the earth now in an effort to bring them back. Why? And what could you hope to do in order to change it? You’ve admitted you’re an old spirit, but I fail to see how that does any good against gods of all things.” Struggling to wrap his mind around these concepts, Findos begins to hear blood rushing in his ears again - things have been relatively peaceful since the dissolution of the Inquisition and the events at the Winter Palace: Pockets of bandits preying on those displaced from their homes, and a period of economic hardship for common folk, but no great wars, no major catastrophes… even Tevinter and the Qun seemed to be behaving themselves.

It occurs to him then that perhaps this period of peace has been naught but the calm before the storm.

Lavellan - Hope - whatever she was called now, tilts her head and the tumultuous sky vanishes along with the clearing, replaced by what isn’t quite a forest, but is rather like one - though it seems to be composed of gilded trees and mosaic-ed tiles.

She has changed too.

Against a backdrop of sky that is the colour of pale gold, she sits atop a throne which would put even Celene’s to shame. She is decked in finery the likes he has never seen; silks that might actually be made of precious metals woven so delicately that they seem to move of their own accord and… change colour?

Upon her head is a diadem of comparable quality, forged from some rich looking metal that shines black and gold at the same time somehow as it curves gracefully above her brow. A singular jewel rests on her forehead, and to Findos, it appears to contain some sort of light that emits the same sort of glow that her eyes had in the clearing earlier.

This creature before him makes Celene - for all her regality - look like a pauper in comparison.

The scraping sound of a blade being drawn returns his attention to the majestic figure in the other-worldly throne room around him, and the elf pulls the sword free from the sheathe set into the side of her throne.

The blade sings as it is freed - sings in a way that he has heard no metal sing in his entire life.

She holds it out, the wicked point aimed straight for his heart, though he is some distance away.

“There once was a time when I could have been one of those gods - had I cared anything for _being_ at all. We are similar constructs, they and I: I just happened to come along a few thousand years later.”

“That is to say; that elven gods are just spirits?”

“The world was once a very different place, Ser Findos. I could regale you with thousands of differences, but that is a topic best saved for a different time. In the meantime, I would take advantage of our fortuitous convergence of fate: I would request your aid.”

He stands in a room beyond anything his wildest dreams could conjure, being asked by a woman clothed like an empress to waylay his honour to another empress.

“I serve the Empire.” He finally announces. “My Empress comes above all else in this world… even this. I cannot rightly flout my vows in this respect - I must respectfully decline.” He bows his head only slightly to the divine figure before him - loyalty aside, he would be a fool clinging to ignorance if he chose to continue believing this was a demon.

“Very well.” The spirit says, the opulent illusion dissolving around them.

His brow furrows; he had thought there would be more insistence - more demand from the woman. Instead she seems perfectly happy with the answer he has given her.

Perhaps it is because she has already perceived the next words out of his mouth.

“I cannot help you, but I can take you to the Empress; we will let her decide what becomes of you and your crusade.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

“What is war like? Truly?”

He groans and sits up, resting a palm on the hard ground beneath him and rubbing at his eyes with another until the sleep has receded enough for him to make out the form of the elf sitting on the edge of the bed, her elbows on her knees, staring intently at him.

“What?” He grunts, raking his fingers through closely cropped hair that is most certainly sticking in every direction imaginable - he always looks a mess when he wakes up.

“Countless wars and ages: I’ve spectated them all. Now that I am gearing up to be involved in one, I should like to know what to expect from the perspective of a participant.” She cradles her chin in her left hand as she speaks, and Findos notes that she has removed her gloves; an observation that would have meant nothing to him if it wasn’t for the fact that her left arm clearly consists of opalescent and faintly translucent flesh that appears to glow in a rather prismatic manner.

“So it was not a nightmare…” he sighs heavily, turning his gaze to the expanse of floor at his feet: His face itches, and the image of his socked feet wavers in his field of vision as his eyes refuse to blink.

The socks could really use mending.

Freshly donned socks…

“Nightmare?” The elf’s voice reaches him through his stupor. “I hope not.”

Hope.

What the fuck is happening to my life?

“War,” he begins, his voice dry and thin from sleep. “War is like…” trailing off in a hiss, he struggles to find words so soon after waking. Maybe that’s a poor excuse - what is war like? The images that immediately spring to mind are raw: The screams of an elven man shattering against the plaster walls - he’s begging for mercy as he’s dragged around the corner and Findos turns his back to the racket, focusing very hard on his duty manifest for the night. Of course there’s the smell of smoke: That’s reminiscent of war and the camps that spring up around it. But smoke also brings to mind an alienage on fire, and the rapid briefing from higher-ups that had prefaced it.

War was like turning an entire nation - his nation - into slaughter neatly disguised as orders at the behest of a man who sought power.

War was Orlesians fighting Orlesians.

Driving his sword into the gut of men he studied and trained with and telling himself it didn’t cause him pain to do so… that was war.

Hating - or more specifically - hating what you have been told to hate without care for whether what you hate is worth hating: That is what war was like.

There was glory in all of that though - somewhere. Of course there was. There had to be: That alone is the very reason he bears the title of Chevalier.

“War is not all that you think it to be, and more than you could ever expect.” He settles on finally, getting to his feet, boot-knife in hand: He cannot recall the last time the weapon was not within his immediate reach.

“Is that all?” The elf whispers, eyes boring into him in a rather uncomfortable manner as she perches on the edge of the bed, her tattered leathers clasped over her chest in an attempt at preserving modesty.

“There is only one way to find out, rabbit.”

The dawn light filtering in through the grimy window seems to dim, and the elf drops her hands, clenching the edge of the mattress with them as she leans forward slightly, apparently uncaring of her physical state.

“I have witnessed enough of recent history to know that ‘rabbit’ is not a term of endearment.” She says quietly. “If you utter such a term in my presence again, I shall cut the tips of your own ears off and we will see then who is more attached to the bits of meat on the sides of their head. You are a man beyond casual liberties, Ser Findos.”

“Thought you were meant to be a spirit of Hope.” Findos points out, not balking at the threat and instead grabbing his boots and tugging the worn leather articles on with an ease that betrays exactly how long he’s been shoving his feet into these particular boots. “That was a bit dark.”

“Whoever told you that hope is simple-mindedly kind was either tragically misinformed, or lying to your face.” The elf retorts. “But perhaps you are right; it is most befitting for me to entreat the Dread Wolf and the false gods with a friendly smile and some motherly advice.” She does in fact smile, though it is a rather nasty expression that Findos does not overlook.

“If I was a man of sane mind,” Findos begins as he sets about donning his armor. “I would dump you at the nearest Circle and make sure you were next in line for The Rite.”

“You could attempt it.” The elf admits fairly. “Alas, I was under the impression we had procured some sort of accord as a product of our discussion last night.”

“Daylight brings sober second thoughts.” The chevalier notes, holding up his left greave to the window and squinting as he surveys the item for any damage or imperfections. “For one, I haven’t a clue what I’m going to tell my men: A good portion of them reckon you’re an abomination masquerading as a dead woman -  and they aren’t entirely wrong. How do you propose I explain to them that not only are you perfectly alive, but you’re also accompanying us back to Val Royeaux for an audience with Celene?”

“Would it put your mind and your reputation at ease if you escorted me in chains, Ser Findos?” The elf asks, raising an eyebrow. “You could kick me around every so often and call me filthy names. If it really helped your cause, you could even tell them you had your way with me last night. Perhaps it would help even more if you let a few of them have their way with me.” Her dirty and blood-smeared face cracks into a lascivious grin. “Subtlety and intricate plotting was the realm of El’una Lavellan, and she is dead: There is too much at stake to pull strings and play such games now. Devise a way to inform your men that I am accompanying you of my own free will, and that I am not an unholy monster come to pull their heads off and devour their souls - I’ve been run through with one too many blades to be agreeable to such treatment a second time.”

Part of him is sorely tempted to slit her throat and call it a day; if only to balm the sheer indignity of being cuckolded like this by a stranger.

“You have made a life out of leading, Ser Findos - they will follow you.”

He looks up in what is meant to be a casual glance, but in doing so meets her eyes: Her face is so genuine, and she no longer sneers sarcastically from under a mask of gore. Instead the streaks of red and black are mute on her skin, and he sees only a truth that was always there: He has lead his men through the void and back. For better or worse, they have always trusted his command and followed through to the best of their abilities.

Perhaps honour is not such a lie after all.

“They will not like it, but the order will be given.” He resolves. “This had better not be the seeds of some trickery I will come to regret, elf.”

“Not of my design.” She admits. “Trickery is the domain of our foe. Whilst we stand side by side, my blade is yours, as is my magic - though I know you would prefer the blade.”

Findos snorts and his fingers argue with the buckles at his side. “Not with that wound in your side. You’re not lifting steel for a long time, missy. Speaking of which - you really shouldn’t be sitting like that: Might as well rip Henri’s stitches out with your fingers for all it’s worth.” He looks up when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye: The elf is standing, holding aside the remnants of her armor in patient invitation.

“That sort of reasoning is the sort that will get you killed in days to come if you are not careful.” She notes, allowing him to take in the patch of bare skin under her rib cage that had been covered with dressing the night before: The wound is nearly indiscernible; an angry red mark against a pale backdrop of otherwise healthy flesh. “I regained enough strength throughout the night to heal myself - _we_ are not so easy to kill.”

He clips the last bracket into place, and the elf smiles anew.

“You are…” he trails off. “You are… I don’t even know.”

“Few of this age do.” The elf says, sliding from the bed and rising.

“Had best find you something to wear that isn’t shredded.” Findos murmurs, trudging across the floor of the room, the weight of his armor betrayed by every step. “I’ve got a spare shirt… that’ll have to do until we can stop at a more established town that actually has an armorer. Worst comes to worst there’s an Orlesian garrison camped at the border that we can detour through.” His knee guards scrape the wooden floor as he drops to rifle through his pack.

Shirt in hand, he rises, wincing at the protesting twang that his knees emit at the motion; sore knees - when did that start being a common occurrence?

“My thanks.” The elf says, catching the article, turning her back, and wasting little time peeling the blood encrusted armor from her skin.

“I have yet to hear you speak your people’s language.” Findos observes, turning from the woman and busying himself with inventorying and organizing his pack.

“And what, precisely is my people’s language?”

Findos feels himself frown as his hands pause. “Elven.” He points out, not quite able to mask the cynicism in his tone.

“Mmm.” Is the elf’s response. “Ir abelas, falon - ebasaam; ebadim; you are; kalnath - all are: How do I speak all of the languages at once?”

“I thought dwarves didn’t dream.”

“Perhaps not, but the elves and humans that have learned their language over the ages certainly do: I did not take a physical form to save the elves and only them - they are no more or less ‘my people’ than you or anyone else.”

“Fair point - though others may have a differing opinion.” Findos grunts. “Are you decent?”

“An odd question, but yes.” The elf answers, and Findos turns while hitching his pack over his shoulder and grabbing his shield. The elf stands at the foot of the bed, eyes lingering pointedly on his sword that hangs on its post.

“I’ll be needing my sword back.” She murmurs. “And my cloak: I’ve found I quite enjoy wearing cloaks.”

Findos nods and scratches the back of his neck in the way that only a man in his position can.

A rooster crows from the field beyond the inn, and he opens the door, pulling it aside for the elven woman and motioning her through with a sort of forced and awkward grace that makes him wonder once again what exactly the fuck is happening to his life.


	5. Chapter 5

Six months and a bit less then half again; she had died only that long ago.

There is a carefully carved pressing in the dirt of a plain mid-countryside in what is now known as Orlais: It is a geographical marking only visible from thousands of feet above the ground and it spans miles in dimension. It has existed for as long as anyone in any nearby settlements can remember, and despite any attempts to till and fertilize the soil, the lines are stubbornly salty and remain utterly barren.

If a person was able to look at the burnt earth from thousands of feet in the air, and was privy to a certain sort of knowledge, they might be able to look at the enormous sigil and recognize it to be a massive spot of graffiti on the landscape - and particularly that it marks the precise date of coming in regard to a spirit known as “Pride” in such a way that is easily calculable and obvious to even modern folk.

At the time he had put it there as an enormous “fuck you” to Ghilan’nain, who loved to run those plains with her creations - he always had been an ostentatious bastard in his youth.

In an almost fitting twist of fate, the cards fell so that had been lumped in with them despite his kicking against them: He was remembered as one of them. Revered as one of them: A god. A villain too though: Two of the worst cards to be dealt, really; a villainous god.

But - one does what they can with what they’ve got.

She says - said - that.

The Dread Wolf hangs his head at the realization:

Years past uncountable numbers for those who might even try to tally them compare poorly to the contextual length of things as actually long as six months and less half again.

Saving her from her fate was not the issue: Tragedy befalls every life despite circumstance or power. If El’una was to die, she was to die. No, it was the way that she exited life that twists his gut six months and less half again.

“Harden your heart to a cutting edge,” he had told her.

Questions. She always had questions.

“You seem to adjust your grip strangely when casting healing spells in combat - why? If I did something like that during such an intricate spell I would almost definitely drop my staff. It’s almost risky, but you do it with such confidence, I can’t help but wonder why you do it at all; you’ve mentioned to Dorian before that you have no reason for pomp in your casting.”

He was never able to say no to answering her questions, in all fairness. She had this way of appearing suddenly - but rather casually - and striking you with such as precisely worded inquiry that you had no other option but to answer in appropriate detail while she stood across the room from you, probably scratching at a bit of grit in a brick and nodding slowly as she listened.

She was exceptional at listening… even when she wasn’t meant to.

When drawing from the Fade in order to repair injuries or provide vitality, one must be the conduit for that vitality, and therefore be willing to move with that vitality first: Just like lightning is drawn to tall spires, life is drawn to life - fire and ice can be captured and contained, but life must be accepted with an invitation and not a spur if it is meant to be malleable to a person’s will.

She continued her almost never-ceasing head-bob as he finished, rubbed a bit of dust off the wall, said, “Interesting. Thank you,” and walked away.

Less than a week later he found himself on the ground at the mercy of a demon of rage who had moments earlier caught him full on the face with a molten and furious claw. His vision swam about him and all he could see was violent orange light.

Then, the pain in his face ceased and in his clearing vision he could see El’una, thirty yards back, holding her staff as he had when he cast his own healing magic.

He had made no effort to try and teach her this - outside of practical application it was a basically worthless thing to know, and El’una was better suited to offense with that blade of hers.

However...

_“Harden your heart to a cutting edge.”_

He had not meant her to listen to that - not really - at least not as well as she seemingly had.

_“I’m already dead.”_

_“I’m right here.”_

_“Just wake up.”_

_“Loose.”_

Somehow she had infiltrated him. Somehow she had passed for some time as someone else without detection - a glamour yes, but she had kept her mind hidden from him as well: To his own failing. To the very last breath she drew as the jaws of her trap closed around him.

The cutting edge of El’una Lavellan had not been meant to strike him dead, but instead to reinforce what he already knew:

You will not die alone, Dread Wolf, but instead with the corpses of all you love at your feet.

Her dying breath was an act of rebellion.

Why did she have to die that way? The residual magic of the mark would have killed her eventually; he told her as much - but it would have belayed itself a considerable longer amount of time than the city illness had.

She was going to find a way out of this. Even if she didn’t, she was going to make what remained of the world a better place in the meantime.

Instead she became ill, and powerless, and her mind was wounded, and she had nothing left but the breath she held in her bleeding lungs.

_“Loose.”_

Her last word was a command; one meant to bring physical pain to another - possibly death.

Her last word was not ‘love’ or ‘happy’ or even ‘goodbye.’

It was a wish of pain: a slap in the face. Something he had never wanted for her - no one should have their death be steeped in such misery, and yet she had chosen to pursue such a fate.

She knew she had no hope in killing him - they both knew that the arrows would not be fatal to someone like him. A brief recovery period is all it took for the entry points to fade into scars so pale and insubstantial that one had to look quite hard to pinpoint them.

Such is the nature of his magic - healing is fast, easy, and his body is capable of withstanding things that modern elves cannot.

E’luna had been exemplary of this; city illness: A disease that did not even exist during his own time, but in this time and place was an epidemic that killed thousands annually.

How cruel that passive mortality was the harbinger of his beloved’s demise.

He shakes his head, and stares out over the sprawling plains at the distant silhouette of the Frostbacks cut out against the darkening sky.

He could go back - it would be simple enough to return to Skyhold and bid El’una farewell: He is well informed enough to know that she was laid to rest in the fortress. It isn’t terribly far from where he is now…

“Ser.”

Solas turns at the address to see a young lad behind him, bare toes digging nervously into the snow beneath his feet. He has a scrapped and weathered bit of parchment clenched in his grimy fingers.

“Dolan gave me this to give to you - said he found it on his most recent scouting trip to the west. He said it would be of interest to you.” The lad holds out the parchment and shivers - Solas makes a mental note to speak with the quartermaster and have some more weather appropriate clothing found for the young elf from the city.

“Thank you, Eron,” He says, accepting the paper from the lad. “Head back to the camp without delay and find yourself something warm to eat next to the fire - you are poorly equipped for this weather.”

“Right away m’lord. Thank you m’lord.” The elven lad mutters, bowing his head in humility - Solas nearly corrects the boy - the words catch in his throat, and he lets it go: They’ll understand eventually. Ordering the lad not to call him ‘lord’ would be no different than ordering him to do so.

The boy’s footfalls retreat back into the coniferous wood, and Solas surveys the parchment that Dolan was so keen on getting to him.

_Contractual Bounty set forth by His Honorable Lordship Teagan Guerrin, Arl of Redcliffe this, the twenty-third day of Harvestmere in the year 9:45 Dragon at the Behest and Petition of those Residents of the Hamlet of Anceling (herein referred to as the “Complainants”)_

_Now therefore this Bounty witnesseth in consideration of the sum of Ten Thousand Crowns (10,000), paid to the party (or parties), who fulfill the Contractual Obligations hereby set below by the entitlement and wishes of the Hamlet of Anceling’s Arl Presiding: His Honorable Lordship Teagan Guerrin:_

  * _Apprehension of One (1) Apostate at Large (herein referred to as the “Plaintiff”), reason being crimes against the Crown and the Arl (as listed hereto:)_
  * _Unchecked roaming of Arling Lands causing undue Distress, Terror, and General Discomfort amongst the Complainants_
  * _Unauthorized use of Magic outside of Circle walls and out of the Direct Supervision of an Accompanying Templar or Templars_
  * _Public Mischief_
  * _Communing with Spirits_



_Physical Description of the Plaintiff as Follows:_

  * _Race: Elven_
  * _Gender: Female_
  * _Age: Thirty (30) Winters approximately_
  * _Build: Above average height for an Elf, Slight of Frame_
  * _Eyes: Hazel_
  * _Hair: Brown_
  * _Discernable Markings: Bare-Faced_
  * _Wearing: Leather Armour, Unidentifiable Longsword, Cloak of Blue._
  * _Names/Aliases: Unknown_



_Additional Caveats as Follows:_

_The Plaintiff is confirmed to be a Mage, though she wields no Stave or Wand - as such, it is His Honorable Lordship’s command that any and all attempt(s) to fulfill the terms set out within this Contractual Bounty are undertaken with the utmost of care by only qualified individuals._

_Due to the significant quantity of personal risk undertaken by any and all who wish to collect upon this Agreement, a bonus sum of coin will be administered by His Honorable Lordship upon Proof of Completion._

The neat scrawl of the contract ends at the bottom, with a pristinely drawn “...2” which denotes there is a second page to the document.

Breath tight, Solas realizes that his hands are ever so slightly trembling. He looks over the physical description of the Arl’s troublesome apostate once more, and flips the page.

The likeness is very good: The people of Anceling certainly took diligent care in describing the woman to the artist who conceptualized her.

It’s a familiar face, the one that smirks up at him from the parchment: He’s sketched it himself many a time - so many times that the planes of her cheekbones and the gentle slope of his nose are burned forever into his mind, ready to be set free at any moment by fingers holding charcoal.

There is no doubt whose face this shape belongs to, though it seems almost a cruel jape.

After all, how could a dead woman be terrorizing local villages?

El’una Lavellan continues to smile at him from the paper in a way that suggest she knows the answers to every single question that has avalanched into his mind in the past half minute.


	6. Chapter 6

“Are you in any way like her?” He finds himself babbling one morning as the battalion works its way across the plains.

She turns her head at her words and slows her horse slightly so that she rides beside the chevalier and his hulking stallion.

“How do you mean?” She inquires fairly; this world appears to be full of people who delight in asking vague questions: It would be obvious to any who knew her that she shares much in common with El’una Lavellan.

She keeps this sentiment to herself however, and waits for Findos to answer.

“Well you look like her… except that arm of yours; not so sure about that - but I’m getting ahead of myself: What I mean to ask is: Do you recall her at all? Do you possess her memories as well as her body? Her soul? Her mannerisms?”

Hope hums slightly and stares up at the lightening sky as she seems to take her time considering Findos’ query. For a time, the only sound is the creaking of leather, and the sound of earth being pressed flat under the hooves of horses.

“I cannot rightly say.” The spirit finally resolves. “There is no sentient essence of her within me, if that’s what you’re asking: There is no voice of El’una Lavellan whispering into my ear and weighing into my decisions.” Hope lifts and hand from the reins and adjusts the hood of her cloak so that she can see Findos properly. “In other ways perhaps I retain some similarities to her, however… I haven’t rightly been around long enough to discover what they are, but I am sure in time such idiosyncrasies will make themselves known.”

“Idiosyncrasies?” Findos repeats lifting an eyebrow.

“A distinctive feature or characteristic which - “

“Yes I know what the word means: I am no simpleton. I only wonder what idiosyncrasies you could possibly mean: Such a broad implication could mean many things: A fondness for tea, perhaps, or on the other hand, an irresistible overwhelming  affection for this Fen’Harel of yours - I remember him: I remember when he walked with the Inquisitor. He seemed an honest enough fellow at the time.” Findos lips press into a thin line and he stares forward down the road. “Damn him for his treachery, the coward.”

Hope emits a dry laugh. “You honestly think the biggest hurdle to all of this is the potential of falling in love?” She takes a moment to laugh a bit more and Findos’ ears go a bit red. “I did not come here to fall in love, Ser Findos: That is a domain well beyond my ken, and I have little interest in exploring it at all.”

“It is commonly said in Orlais that love makes the most beautiful joys and the most delicate adversities of life: Life is a bloom, and love is the nectar.”

“Of course your people would think such things: There has been a spirit of Love trapped in a box on the mantle of a Haberdasher in Val Royeaux for the past three centuries: The box has been passed down from generation to generation, but never opened lest the spirit inside bring bad fortune to those who freed it. Luckily for Val Royeaux and Orlais in general, Love is a stout spirit and is not so like to get upset despite its confinement: It continues to work its magic despite its bonds.”

“How poetic.” Findos mentions dryly.

“True love is meant to be unconditional, is it not?” Hope points out, “At least that is my understanding of the concept and why Love continues to remain so strong… and Orlais so romantic.”

“Do you not have any desire to liberate it?” Findos asks. “If this spirit has been trapped for so long against its will, one would think you would feel obliged to free your brethren. Do spirits feel no loyalty to their kin?”

“A concept that clearly troubles you, Ser Findos.” Hope mentions, looking at him rather slyly. “But just as I did not come here to fall in love, I did not come here to set it free upon the world either. Love will be liberated some day; it’s inevitable - but I must ask you: How imprisoned can something be if it continues to exert its influence on the world from its cage? Is it truly bound at all?” She draws the reins through her hands and looks thoughtfully out to the horizon. “At any rate, I feel that Love might be safer in its cage if the days to come are anything like I think they will be.”

“A cage is still a cage.” Findos murmurs unhappily, clearly not moved by Hope’s rationale.

“Then by all means, brave Chevalier; let us make haste to the Haberdashery and set free this poor downtrodden spirit. There’s some honour in that, wouldn’t you say?” Hope smiles that rather nasty smile of hers again, and can tell by the reaction on Findos’ face that she had struck a nerve.

“You are impossible.” He gripes.

“And _you_ are a hypocrite.”

“Back to the insults, is it? You’ve no idea of what glories I have earned and honour I have won.” Findos grumbles, urging his horse ahead slightly so that they are out of earshot of his men.

“Have peace, Ser Findos; you may very well be a hypocrite sitting on his hands and convincing himself that a suit of expensive armor constitutes valor and glory, but there remains hope for you yet: A man always has choices, and I do believe you will choose the right ones when they present themselves to you.”

“Do you ever tire of speaking?”

Hope laughs again; high and light as if he had just complimented an ornament in her hair or some such thing. “I do believe we are destined to share marvelous adventures, thee and me.” She opens her mouth to continue speaking, and sees Findos frown when he noticed the smile drop from her face, and her eyes snap to the woods lining the road.

It all happens so quickly: In the time it takes her to register the distinct shape of a crossbow aimed at the party from the trees, a line of men has filed out from the brush and blocked the road.

They are all carrying swords - they look to be of poor quality, but Hope has no doubt that they are still lethal.

Findos puts himself and his horse between Hope and the men and raises an armored fist to signal a full stop to his men.

“What is this?” He demands to the line of lethal looking men.

Hope surveys them; they are dressed poorly in tattered leathers and stained wool. Their weapons are in better physical condition than the rest of their garb, and each appears to be wearing a necklace bearing the image of a stoat.

Mercenaries, she decides these are called.

Odd that they’re here, though…

While Hope is lost in utter bemusement at the situation, Findos is posturing himself and preparing for a brief fight: These men are geared poorly and while they have himself and his men surrounded, they chose a strategically poor spot for an ambush: There is a wide ditch on either side of the road, giving Findos and his men the high-ground advantage should they be able to hold it - which they inevitably would.

“Give us the elf-bitch and we’ll let you on your way.” The largest and most scarred of the men says, gesturing at the woman next to Findos with the point of his dirk. “The lads an’ I ain’t want no trouble from a load of Chevaliers.”

Upon realizing that she is being spoken about, Hope pulls herself from her musing and sets her gaze on the man pointing the knife at her. She opens her mouth to inquire politely why the man seems so convinced he must ride off with her, but Findos speaks first.

“Trouble is precisely what you will get if you don’t lower your weapons and fuck off back whatever tavern sold you the piss-water it took to get drunk enough to threaten a squad of Chevaliers, you lack witted country bumpkin: Haven’t you some sheep to mind… or fuck? Whichever: Clear off!”

The large man snarls and lunges forward, though he does not attack.

“Orlesian ponce! I’ll see you regret that!” He seethes.

“Will you?” Findos asks, sitting stalk-straight in his saddle: From this angle, Hope thinks that he indeed does look very noble. “On what authority do you raise a blade to Empress Celene’s sworn guard? Hmmm? In Orlais, men who do such things are broken on the wheel in a public square for all to see.”

“Well we ain’t in fuckin’ Orlais, are we?” The mercenary snaps, and Findos displays no reaction aside from a brief raising of his eyebrows. “Was just gonna take the elf, but now you’re on my bad side, peacock - I want your gold - all of it. And all your men’s too.”

“I cannot give you this elf.” Findos explains in a tone more diplomatic than Hope had thought possible from the hot-headed man. “She is of personal significance to Empress Celene Valmont, and as such is under Imperial protection: She goes where the Empress says, and the Empress says she is going to Val Royeaux - with us.”

The mercenary shifts from foot to foot and reaches to his belt, withdrawing a crumpled and worn scrap of parchment. “See, that’s not what Arl Teagan says,” He mentions, unfolding and holding out the parchment for Findos to see. “Criminal, this one. Bounties for ‘er plastered all over every township for miles. And you wanna export her over sovereign boundaries?” The man _tsks_ as he watches Findos examine the contents of the supposed bounty. “You’ve got your duty to your Empress, Chevalier, and I’ve got mine to the Crown - any decent Ferelden would be loathe to let this fugitive slip out of the land’s jurisdiction: ‘Tis my civic responsibility, ya see?” He holds out his hand and accepts the bounty back from Findos who has finished reading it. “So how do we propose we settle this little diplomatic conundrum, Good Ser Chevalier?”

“ _What in the void is going on up there?!_ ” Hope hears one of Findos’ men bellow from back down the road.

“Just some bullshit!” Findos calls over his shoulder before turning back to the mercenary leader, which was a mistake honestly, because if he was as perceptive as he thought he was, he would have first bothered to glance at the elf next to him who was now glowering rather frighteningly at the lead man.

Of course, he _did_ look to her an instant later when the man’s mouth suddenly tore open in a soundless scream and golden light burned from his eyes and nose before he crumpled to the ground - dead and slightly smoking.

“I think you’ll find I go where I please.” She mutters in the direction of the man’s corpse just before chaos erupts in earnest: Taking sight of their fallen leader, the line of remaining mercenaries immediately charges the chevaliers who react effortlessly.

All at once, the air is filled with the sound of a dozen swords being drawn as one, and the chevaliers split ranks and focus on the core groups of enemies with practiced elegance that suggest years and years of training this particular tactic and putting it to practical application.

Three of the mercenaries have focused on Findos and his stallion, and Hope urges her own horse a distance away from the scuffle in time to see one of Findos’ armored boots connect firmly with the face of one of his attackers - the man goes flying with a broken grunt and lands on the ground a few yards away where he does not move again.

Drawing her own blade now, Hope looks up the corridor of violence that has overwhelmed the road, and deciding that Findos is equipped to handle the remaining two mercenaries, she casts a barrier over him and sets her horse off to the main struggle and the reality of the archers still in the trees: None of Findos’ men have been struck by a bolt yet; their armor and the tack of their horses is thick and strong, but if the threat is not neutralized, someone is bound to take injury eventually.

She rides up the road a ways, passing by and through other mounted men, and she turns when she reaches the central point of the throng. There is a twang from the trees, and she hears the bolt tearing the air before she can see it: A hand is lifted and the bolt is struck from the air easily by the spirit.

“Chevaliers!” She hears Findos bellow. “Protect the elf!”

He means well, she decides, and lifts her hands regardless, weaving the Fade around them and speaking to the ageless life within the trees along the road: There is a slight rustling at first, but that gives way to expressions of shock and confusion as the rustling becomes overwhelmingly loud and the cries cease altogether.

Whoever decided that trees don’t have feelings was very, _very_ mistaken.

Looking back over the chaos, she can see that Findos is no longer mounted and that his stallion is prancing around agitatedly near the mouth of the scrum. Deciding to follow suit, Hope slides from the saddle and drops her hood so that she has a clearer view of the battlefield.

There is little more to do: All of the chevaliers locked in combat with a mercenary appear to be winning their respective fights, and the situation seems to be mostly under control aside from the fact that she cannot see Findos for all of the legs and bodies between herself and where he should be.

She adjusts her grip on her sword and moves forward, once again weaving and ducking around elbows, blades, and pommels as she presses towards her goal.

A man with a missing eye and scabby face ceases his attempt at rifling through Findos’ saddlebags when he catches sight of Hope, and he begins to advance on her, lifting a shoddily crafted maul and treating her to a repulsive smile.

“Stealing is wrong.” She says, calmly catching the man’s wrist when he swings and pushing up on it just hard enough so it breaks and the attacker falls to his knees, clutching at his ruined arm. “Stealing from people does not make the world a better place - even if the people you are stealing from are less than savoury: You are only giving into Despair with such rationale.” She crouches down next to the man and places her gloved palm on his pockmarked face - he looks up at her tearfully, his eyes filled to the brim with fear of the inevitable.

“You can still make the world better despite your lack of morals - I am letting you go.” A sudden breeze rises and obediently places the tattered bounty in the elf’s hand. “You will take this to your ‘ _Arl Teagan_ ’ and tell him to trouble me no further, do you understand?” When the man doesn’t speak immediately, Hope squeezes his jaw and forces his eyes back to her own. “Do you understand?”

He finally nods, and Hope drifts a hand over his right wrist, leaving perfectly whole bones in the wake of her touch. The one-eyed man gapes in shock at his functioning fingers, and scrambles backwards away from the spirit.

“Go now.” She says, rising to her feet, sword in hand.

Turning, she moves to step forward, but is halted immediately when the blade of another sword is thrust across her path - likely in an effort to block the swing from an axe that she had overlooked. She glances down the arm of the sword-bearer to see Findos, sweaty, red faced, and on his knees, working against the downwards force exerted by the man holding the axe.

He shoots Hope a look that wordlessly says, _“You’re welcome, any repayment of the favour would be appreciated right this moment.”_

Of course.

An invisible wall of force is directed at the man bearing the axe, and he is launched away from Hope and Findos so quickly that his axe remains behind, hooked over Findos’ sword as its owner skids roughly over the dirt road: Hope is almost certain his injuries will kill him - the velocity of her push along with the surface of the road more or less created the effect of flaying a person.

“It is over.” She says, offering Findos a hand and assisting him to his feet.

They stand in silence and watch the chevaliers dispatch the remaining foes with ease, and in short time the moans of the dying slowly begin to disappear.

Findos does not breathe heavily, despite his sweaty appearance. Though he does heave a loud sigh when Henri informs him that there are no injuries or casualties.

The medic stalks away to help the men wrangle the few horses that spooked, and Findos watches his back as he retreats before turning his gaze to Hope and sighing again, “Did… did you bewitch those trees to eat people?”

“Saying I _bewitched_ them implies that they didn’t _want_ to eat people in the first place: Have you ever really thought about trees, Findos? Old. Silent. Angry: They have seen much pain and injustice in the world and are cursed to a lifetime of silence. A lifetime is a long time to sit on such feelings silently, don’t you think? If I had no voice and was forced to sit quietly and watch while the world fell into sadness and despair around me, I would probably want to eat people too.” She sheathes her sword and draws her hood up again, stealing sight of her golden eyes from Findos’ gaze. “Those trees will be happy now, knowing that there are people who listen to silence.”

Shaking his head, Findos sheathes his own sword and runs a gloved hand through his sweaty and wayward hair. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain that to my men. They distrust you enough as it is.”

“You might tell them that if I desired to feed them to trees, I would have done so by now - that should set their minds at ease.” She begins turning to her horse, but Findos stops her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Wait.” He says. “The barrier you cast on me before you sped off - why?”

Hope looks at the armored hand on her shoulder and Findos removes it as though he had been burned - perhaps he had - everything that happened around this woman was odd.

“I can’t very well go around gambling with your life without taking reasonable precautions, Ser Findos: What would these men have without hope?” She quirks an eyebrow and manages to walk away this time.

Findos gazes after her for a time, flabbergasted at yet another mystery. He feels his mouth snap shut and takes off after her.

“Hold one moment!” He calls out. “You realize this all could have been avoided if you hadn’t of done whatever it is you did to their leader.”

Hope halts again, cloak swaying around her ankles but not in the same way her dress swayed around them in the dream.

“Could it have been avoided?” She asks, rhetoric plain as once again she faces Findos.

At this precise moment, it’s as though he can see what she really is for the first time. Sure, she looks identical to the Inquisitor, but at this moment, it is plain to see how remarkably unlike the Dalish woman this elf is.

It may be the way her dark hair curls in the breeze around her that was not there a moment ago, or it may be the way her golden eyes cut through the morning light in a way that beseeches Findos to pay them heed.

Regardless, this creature is clearly not of this world: Any doubt he had in his mind over the fact is banished in an instant.

“Mayhaps it could have been avoided if I only sat aside quietly like the trees and let the pair of you argue politics back and forth for the next age while the world fell apart around you. I’ve impressed it to you already, Ser Findos; I have neither the time nor the patience for political machinations and bureaucracy - besides, I’ve already had unpleasant encounters with groups of people armed with sharp objects - it seemed prudent to neutralize the threat whilst the opportunity welcomed it.”

“You could very well have sown the seeds of war.” Findos retorts, not balking at Hope’s words. “He told it true: You are considered a criminal in the eyes of the law here in Ferelden. Taking you over Orlesian borders would be poking the bear: Teagan is well known for disliking the Inquisition - It’s a miracle he hasn’t become suspicious of your identity already, but if he does glean the truth of it, I have little doubt that he will spare no expense in having you brought to justice.”  

“I can bring myself to Justice perfectly well on my own, thank you: I happen to know him quite well,” She retorts, and she rolls her eyes when the jape appears to go entirely over Findos’ head.

“This is serious!” Findos impresses. “Orlais and Ferelden have a strained past as it is, and the last thing we need right now is a new war!”

“All the better for you then that Orlais and Ferelden will have far bigger problems in the coming months than calling the cavalry because somebody’s feelings got hurt over an elvhen woman.”

“Ser Findos! We are ready!” Jiacom calls from afar. Findos turns and sees his company regrouped, mounted, and prepared to ride out.

“We will discuss these _problems_ that appear to be predestined another time, Lady Hope.” He promises. “I cannot stand idly by while your crusade tears the world apart at the expense of others,” He tells her in a low voice before mounting his stallion.

“At least you are not a tree, Ser Findos,” She says, swinging up onto her horse and awaiting the chevalier to do the same. “It would be such a shame to see such pain in the world and be forced to sit as a silent spectator to it all, don’t you agree?”

Blood rushes in his ears, and Findos spurs the horse, leaving Hope behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

He barely registers the initial happenings: Whispers and mutterings amongst his people in the early gray of the past few mornings - an old woman complaining of a restless sleep, a former Tevinter slave rubbing his eyes throughout the day as he tends to his kin; a young child yawning every few minutes and burying her face in her mother’s shoulder despite the sun rising higher in the sky. None of these observances are out of place or cause for alarm: The elderly often sleep poorly, a liberated man will always carry a sense of fatigue that bespeaks the hardship he’s lived, and it is not uncommon for a babe to sleep for much of the day when convenient.

The yawnings, stretchings and groanings that ride the morning are just another aspect of lingering constantly around people - another assumed experience.

It is not until the fourth consecutive morning of this overly highlighted observance that he starts to feel something similar to concern.

He is passing through the hallways of his ancient sanctuary, rounding a balcony and descending into one of the lower wings via one of the better kept stairways when he hears the voice echoing up the stone corridor.

“ - light. Only this bright, bright light that burned my eyes, but no matter how hard I tried, I was unable to look away or shield my gaze.”

“It was only a dream, Martah - there isn’t any light that’s going to hurt you.” A second voice - male - scolds gently. “You’ll sleep better tonight.”

His feet cease to move at the mention of dreams, and he remains in place when the voices continue below.

“I tried to wake up,” The female voice snaps, her voice laced with frustration. “I swear on June’s own iron II did do just that in fact - but even though my eyes were open and awake, they were still flooded with light so strong it made my nose hurt.”

“Martah, listen to me - ,” There is a pause in which Solas assumes Martah’s companion has reached to her consolingly - taken her hand or shoulder in kindness. “ - We’re not on the run anymore. The templars don’t exist here, and neither do the shems. I know you never got to learn how to use your magic properly, but you needn’t bring yourself to this sort of stress anymore. He’s promised us safety. You’ll learn how to use your magic here; under people who have had experiences like you. No templars, no circles, and no… no bloody clan to worry about, alright?”

“I’ve never felt so tired…” He hears Martah whisper. “And I’m scared. I’m scared to go to sleep.”

* * *

 

“Travelling with who?!”

“Orlesian Chevaliers, my lord. They mean to take her - or she means to go of her own accord to the Empress. She didn’t look like no captive.”

Teagan stares at the face of the woman smirking up at him from the crumpled and shaking parchment in his hands.

“And once again, what did she do to you?” He manages to inquire.

The sellsword shifts from foot to foot and grasps at his arm as if touching it will help him remember. “Well the elf… the mage. She snapped me wrist - almost clean off with but a touch; it’s true. I thought that was the end of me: Truth again, what with what she did to Dennick.” He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, pulling and distorting the shallow ‘o’ shaped scars covering his face. “Then she gave me her message, shoved the bounty in me hand, and healed me wrist as good as new without even a word. Sent me off on me way and walked away like it never happened.”

His own heartbeat throbs in his ears, and parts of his vision are going a bit white and patchy due to the barely contained rage he is currently struggling with.

“The message?” Teagan barks, needing to hear it one more time, but not willing to have his own lips utter it, nor his mind think it.

“She bids you trouble her no further, my lord.”

The parchment folds against itself some more as Teagan’s fingers tighten around it. “You received no name from this apostate? No title or right by which she might make such a lofty request?”

The sellsword’s ruddy face cracks into a nasty and crooked smile and he hangs his thumbs on his belt as he says, “Beggin’ your pardon, lordship, but the elf weren’t askin’ for no favour. Fuck the Chevaliers; they’re all heavy, decorated plate and brute force with naught but little pricks in their trousers to make up for it. Sure they spilled a fair bit of Ferelden blood that night, but with what I seen that elf woman do, and what I heard her say, and what I felt in my bones at her touch… forgive me again, Arl Teagan, but she weren’t _askin’_ you to leave her be for her sake: She was sending you a warning.”

Teagan sighs, though he feels no less slighted. Pressing his fingers to his forehead and massaging just above his ears, he mulls over what he does know about this woman.

No circles had come forward to claim her, and he had put out the query nearly a fortnight past - as each day passed it became more unlikely that any ever would. There was an off-chance that she may be an exile - from time to time the clans were known to exile mages when they became too plentiful with them, but the description of her age along with the confirmed bareness of her face made it a stretch that she was a lone Dalish apostate who had lasted so long in the wilderness, let alone become so powerful with no magical guidance. And the Empress? This stumps him truly: What interest does Celene have in this woman, and why?

He catches himself once again caught in the smirk on the paper; a slight curling of the lip put there by whichever artist sketched the described likeness of the fugitive, likely to play on her notoriety and make her look more like the criminal she is.

It seems out of place though, he decides - it’s as if he feels disinclined to believe that this woman would pull this particular expression in real life: It looks stitched on - a haphazardly placed mouth that belongs to someone else.

The sound of the doors of the hall opening give him cause to look up. He frowns at the woman who has just slinked through them, irritated at the brashness of her interruption, but not unwilling to seize on the opportunity it has provided.

“What interest might the Empress of Orlais have with a nameless apostate? An elven one at that.” He asks the dark haired woman, holding up the bounty as if the face on the paper may be enough to solve the mystery.

Morrigan saunters past the sellsword who is still standing in the middle of the room, giving him a noticeably wide berth as she does so. Her eyebrows raise as she nears the outstretched bounty and her chin lifts as she nears and surveys the parchment.

“Celene has long held an interest in things both magical _and_ elvhen,” She points out. “Why should her interest in a woman who is both come as a surprise?” Morrigan folds her arms and puts her back to the sellsword; he may as well not even be here.

“She rides west as we speak with a company of Chevaliers who are apparently willing to fight and die to ensure her safety.” Teagan leans forward and drops his hand. “But she is a criminal in this land, and you and I both know that we can’t have her crossing Orlesian borders.”

An eyebrow is quirked and Morrigan says, “Then I would advise you gather your fastest men and horses and delay sitting here in your hall whilst she gains naught but distance and you gain naught but more questions.”

Teagan sighs and leans back in his seat, “You haven’t anything better to offer me than that? No assumption or inkling of what sort of nightmare I may be dealing with this time?”

“I was under your impression that being capable of sussing out the answers to such mysteries came hand-in-hand with the comely level of prestige that earned you the title of _‘Arl,’_ Lord Teagan.”

Teagan shoots a withering glare at the sellsword over Morrigan’s shoulder; at her words the man’s face split into a poorly hidden grin.

“The only reason I allow you to stay here, witch of the wilds, is because my nephew seems to have some trust and faith in you, and aside from that he sits on a throne and I must abide by his rule. The Orlesian Court may have been wrapped around your finger, and Celene may have been affectionate of your magic tricks, but I am not so easily swayed - and I will be rendered the respect I deserve.”

Morrigan absently picks at a loose thread on the hem of her skirt and nods silently at his words, though her expression could not look any less engaged or interested in them.

“You were sent here by the crown to act as safe-guard and advisor following the rumours that came out of The Exalted Council, and I am asking for your advice now: It would be wise of you to render it with as little lip as possible.”

“Very well,” Morrigan says, standing straight and crossing her arms once more as she squares up to Teagan and meets his eyes with her rich hazel ones. “‘Tis a simple matter of dealing with a dead woman, I should think. The woman on that paper does bear a striking resemblance to another well known elvhen mage… at least for any who possess eyes.” The heels of her boots click over the stone floor as she comes to Teagan’s side in order to gaze at the parchment once more. “I admit an understanding in Celene’s stake: I too would be curious to speak with the Inquisitor and ask her precisely how she managed to come back from the dead. And perhaps more importantly; _who_ wove the threads to make such a thing possible.”

* * *

 

The scout spits into the dim fire and watches the steam rise: Aye, the coals are hot enough, but the lack of the flame’s light removes any warmth caused by the smouldering remnants left behind. The sniffle that follows the spit dances away crisply across the still white snow around him and retreats off of the steep incline and into the valley below. Skyhold stands in the distance; a dark blot cut against the star-filled sky and snow blanketed peaks gleaming as brightly as they could with the moon’s light.

He shivers quietly as he stares at the silent behemoth of stone in the distance: Not a torch burns in the place, nor is a single window lit, but it even from his position way up on the mountain’s edge, he can hear the carrying bays and howls that shatter the brittle winter silence in the valley.

Cursed, was the general assumption within most circles: He himself had lived in Denerim during the time an elf had lead an Inquisition on the world. He never met her or saw her personally, or ever knew anyone who actually had, but he had most certainly heard of her and all of her victories - not least of all being her sphere of influence on the world as an elf - a Dalish one at that: One couldn’t help rooting for a fellow knife-ear to shake up the world some, even if her sort of knife ear wore ink in her skin and relied too heavily on ancient gods to get by.

The point was that she left a painfully obvious and large mark on the world by being an elf in a position of power - especially a position of power that literally put her toe-to-toe with the shems.

Of course anyone would be inspired.

However, The Inquisition was dissolved in relatively short order, failing to become the long-lasting and ever-shining beacon of hope he and many had thought would persist for years to come, righting wrongs and deconstructing the hate, misunderstanding, and oppression the elven people faced from the rest of the world.

Over time, the overhanging disappointment seemed to chip away at the people of the alienage, and small group, by small group, they started disappearing: There was never any fanfare regarding the leavings, but every day or two for weeks on end, at least one of them would tidily pack what they could carry on their backs and leave.

When asked why by the curious, they would only casually admit that it just seemed like the right thing to do, which made no sense to many including himself at the time, but then became sharply apparent when the Templars arrived in the night and stole his daughter away, proclaiming her a mage and escorting her away from the alienage.

The Divine Victoria, she was called. Where was she in all of this? This woman not only fought alongside the Inquisitor, but was also supposedly a trusted confidant as her’s: The way some told it, the Inquisitor was directly responsible for the Nevarran woman’s ascension to her position of precedence over the Chantry and its offshoots - would she not feel a duty to liberate and improve the lives of those who shared race with her dear friend?

He spits again, and chews rather bitterly at a glob of phlegm that has worked it’s way into his mouth.

He thought he would feel more as he watched his daughter’s back disappear, templar fingers wrapped around her arms on both sides as they went.

Instead he just… _understood._

He packed his bag and left the same night, being sure to leave the house dark so there was no lingering question as to whether he would ever come back. He started walking, and before long, the walls of Denerim became but a line on the horizon, and he found his way to a new place; with a new purpose: Sitting on a frozen fucking mountain-top and watching over an abandoned castle because apparently the shackled fortress remained a key point of surveillance.

Has anyone explained why? Not really. It was common knowledge that the Inquisitor was buried inside Skyhold’s walls, and he knew as much that this Solas fellow had also fought alongside El’una Lavellan and had known her personally, and he’d actually been _told_ by the man himself that he was being deployed to this particular peak for a week long shift so that he could compile a report of all comers and goers from the place.

It’s been five days in the miserable snow, and he’s only pulled out his quill and parchment once each day in order to jot down the date and “ _no comers, no goers._ ”

The other scouts do the same: They branch out just before sunrise and span out to their stations around the valley and wait out the sun, keeping their eyes focused for hours at a time at the closed gates of Skyhold.

In all fairness, he can’t fathom why anyone would want to risk the dangerous trek through the Frostbacks in order to get to this place, but presumably those who would are of import to this elf named Solas. Still, he -

There is a rustling of tent flaps and then a crunch behind him. The scout swivels on the boulder he is perched on and peers through the darkness at the woman who has just emerged from the tent nearest the fire.

“Elanor?” He inquires, making out the figure of the woman he knows to have a round face and golden hair and a birthmark on her ankle the shape of a star.

Her shadow paces a few more feet away from the tent, closer to him. She moves in a rather jerky, sleepy fashion, half staggering through the snow in silence.

He repeats her name.

“Ana? Sister I nearly didn’t recognize you; you’re fully grown!” Elanor is speaking to nothing; she faces a blank white hill of snow, but holds her arms out to it as if to meet an embrace.

The scout frowns and slides from the boulder, glad for his boots as he lands up to his ankles in snow.

“Hello? Are you awake? There’s no one there, Elanor - you know that, right?” He is about to step closer to her when she turns suddenly and bustles off, leaving curious, angular prints in the snow, as if she were following the halls of some building only she can see.

“Yes, well I know it’s silly, but I had no idea you were here the whole time! No one bothered to tell me!” She loops her arm around the air and pulls it close, tickling it roughly and mussing its hair before sighing and dropping to her knees in the snow, grasping an invisible figure in her hands. “Brother…” She sighs, gazing happily into the void.

Deciding that this has crossed the threshold from slightly off putting to entirely un-nerving, he sets about rousing the other scouts, not at all wanting to be left alone to deal with this apparent mental break. Tents are shaken and slapped; names are called and the stirrings within are met with a sharp hiss of beseechment that they hurry their arses up and get out here to help.

He turns around to find that while he’s been working on getting the aid of his sleepy companions, Elanor has found her way to a distance that is far too short for his comfort from the edge of the cliff.

He screams her name this time, and his feet slide on the snow as he sprints to close the distance between them. She remains oblivious all the while, smiling broadly with her eyes wide open as she chatters merrily to empty air. Even when his fingers wrap around her wrist and yank her roughly away from the edge, she makes no indication that she knows he’s there.

Still shivering as he carefully edges her back over the snow, he remarks that her feet are bare and she has made no effort to clothe or gear herself: All she wears is a woolen nightgown.

“Elanor. Elanor? We must get you boots and put you by the fire. Please…” He pleads as the she struggles softly against him.

“What was that, Ana? Bemmin did _what_ to father’s ox skin breeches?!” She tilts her head back and laughs as the scout guides her away. “The wee scamp. Ugh. You know it feels as though I… as though I haven’t seen you in ages. Why I thought I’d never see you again at all, actually what with the blight and all.”

The blight? Well over ten years ago? The scout frowns against Elanor’s hair, but continues to pull her away from the mountain face.

“Fetch a pair of boots and my down blanket!” He shouts to the nearest moving shadow he can see before turning back to Elanor. They are near to the coals of the fire now; he can feel their warmth on his left side. “Elanor.” He says again, lowering his voice to a firm whisper. He shakes her slightly by the shoulders, but she appears unphased and instead nods steadily as though she is raptly listening to someone else. “You need to wake up.” He tells her, digging the tips of his fingers into her shoulders. “Don’t you see, stupid girl? You’re dreaming!” He huffs an exasperated laugh and his breath fogs around their faces.

No sooner is the down blanket placed over her shoulders by another scout when she twirls away from it; the scout is only just able to keep a grip on her fingers as she tugs towards the chasm once more, waving with renewed vigor at another phantom in the night.

“Mother!” She cries. “Mother I have missed you!”

The scout looks to each of his companions and they nod before moving to Elanor’s sides and seizing her arms. She doesn’t seem to notice this, and continues to beam, craning her neck and glancing at the cliff’s edge over her shoulder despite the man and woman holding her fast.

“Well you don’t say,” She babbles cheerfully, “I thought you’d _never_ get those to grow: Got a green thumb like a molded carrot, you do, or at least that’s what I always thoug - “

Her words are only momentarily interrupted by the desperate slap laid across her face by the scout who is rapidly running out of ideas.

“Thought - yes. That’s what I’ve always thought and… and… my word! Is that father?!” Her fight to break free strengthens and she strains impressively at the three people restraining her, standing on her tip-toes in the snow in an attempt to see over the ones blocking her view.

“You need to wake up, Elanor!” The scout screams, “You’re dreaming!”

“What is this?” The other scout grunts, struggling to grip the squirming woman. “It’s like she doesn’t know we’re here.”

Ignoring this, the scout shakes Elanor as hard as he dares, rattling her about a fair bit by doing so and continuing to shout her name.

“It is father! They lied then when they said some noble had taken your head all those years ago.” She laughs brightly and with an overwhelming pull manages to tear free from the scouts.

He hears himself cry her name once more, and he sees the glittering wall of snow kicked up into the air by her bare feet; feels the sting of it hit his face.

Her laughter becomes more and more distant, and by the time it has faded away and he can see again, all that remains of her is a trail of prints that end at the edge of the mountain.


	8. Chapter 8

“What do you mean you wish to cross blades with me?” Hope scoffs dismissively, working at straps on her shins with quick fingers, but not paying Findos the courtesy of looking at him: It is a ridiculous request - they are not enemies. 

Findos shifts his weight and his boots sink slightly into the soft earth. He gestures casually at the sword on the ground next to Hope, and she observes him resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose when a slight breeze stirs the feathers of his helm and causes them to tickle his face: She wonders why he carries it under his arm like that: It seems like it would be easy to wear, for all the trouble it provides. 

“You slew a wyvern with that bit of steel, and yet so far all I have seen you do is entice trees to devour people,” He says before looking around them. “And we are at an Orlesian border crossing: There is a training yard just that way.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder and waits for Hope to answer.

“Yes but to what end? Train for what? I need no practice in fighting you: You are not my foe,” Hope counters, falling silent and frowning as she tugs and adjusts the new leather that encompasses much of her. 

“New leather,” Findos says quickly. “You need to break it in regardless: I’d not suggest walking onto a battlefield with untried armor.” 

Hope creaks a little, makes a bit of a face, and slips the tip of her thumb between herself and the leather joint at her ribcage before saying, “You mean me to play a game with you then?” For that is all this could be, right? He wishes her no real injury; if he did, he surely wouldn’t be standing around asking for her permission to do so, no? 

Yet why not just say so, admit that neither would cause the other harm, and avoid the exchanging of blows all together? 

“We pretend that each is the other’s foe and strike at one another until the other concedes defeat?” Hope says in answer for Findos who is staring at her wordlessly with a look of utter puzzlement on his face. 

“Oui,” He says eventually, seemingly snapping out of his reverie. “Yes; a game. We use blunted steel and count kills and disarmaments rather than blows - it will hone our skills and keep us limber.” 

Hope wrinkles her nose earnestly. “This is considered fun for you?” She wonders reaching down to the straps at her calves again. “I’ve no skills to hone, Ser Findos: I meet a foe and I strike him down, it is that simple.” 

“And if I were put in a position where I must fight one such as yourself? A god, even? I humbly admit that I have fought very few of those in my life.” Ser Findos mentions. “There are now two of such things wandering the land, and I consider myself lucky that probably only one of them would, kill me if given the chance - but what if our enemies gain allies? Allies like you?” 

Hope sits up again, this time leaning back on her hands and stretching her legs out on the grass. “Oh that will happen without question,” She says, staring upwards at nothing. “I told you I was here to save Thedas of course, but I also must save the Fade - I don’t recall ever telling you it will be pretty, simple, or free of bloodshed and beings that you could not dream of even if you tried.”

“You are a master of flippant explanation,” Findos tells her before lifting an armoured hand and pointing at her. “You are also bleeding: From the mouth.” 

Hope frowns slightly and draws gloved fingers across her chin, surveying the shiny wetness left on them. 

“Idiosyncrasies,” She quips, looking untroubled as she wipes her fingers clean on the grass and stares at Findos once more.

“How is that an idiosyncrasy? Blood from the mouth means blood from the lungs or some other organ; given the manner of passing the woman whose skin you’re wearing suffered, I’d wager lungs aren’t off the mark - you’re ill.” The words fall from his mouth sharply, with a bit more heat than Hope imagines he intended. 

Ill? Hope ponders the word silently for a time. El’una Lavellan had been ill. She had been so ill that every breath she drew in those last painful days was little more than a desperate, agonizing attempt to keep pushing forward. Her skin was pallid and slick with sweat, and her voice devolved into little more than a rasping hiss as her body refused to obey the will of its owner. 

Herself on the other hand… she feels perfectly well as far as her understanding of having a body allows her to assess. More like than not that just as manifesting in El’una’s form did not entirely erase the former absence of a left arm, the cards merely fell in such a way that this body would continue to bleed from time to time - more likely out of habit and memory than anything: After all, Hope truly came to know El’una while there was blood almost constantly dripping from her chin. Taking the form of someone doesn’t necessarily mean one gets to take it unmarred and whole. 

Wishing she could simply communicate this line of reasoning to Findos without actually saying anything, Hope begins attempting to explain what Compassion looks like these days, but catches herself when a glimpse of colour settles into the corner of her eye: Where she had wiped the blood from her fingers, a small wildflower now grows, stubbornly jutting up from the tangled grass. 

She smiles and gently plucks the flower from the earth and holds it out to Findos. 

“Rest assured that I am beyond physical ailments, Ser Findos. I am but an avatar of a woman whose illness certainly killed her, but along the way empowered her and made her capable of great hope and skill.” 

Findos looks skeptical at her words, but takes the flower regardless. “I fail to see how dying a drawn-out and painful death would conjure hope inside anyone.” 

“I’m afraid I’m a poorly misunderstood concept in that regard.” Hope says, rising to her feet and collecting her sword from the ground next to her. 

“Did you know that in Orlais, ladies of the court and nobility often give flowers similar to these to Chevaliers and champions before tournament events?” Findos asks, rolling the stem of the white flower between his fingers. “The men tuck them into their helms, or between the crevasses in their armour so that they may be protected by the lady’s favour during the event and achieve victory and honour by her blessing. Depending on who the giver of the favour is, it is seen as a great achievement: The more renowned and powerful the lady, the more respected the Chevalier is.” 

“And whose favour have you possessed, Ser Findos?” Hope asks, checking the tightness of her belt with one hand. 

He looks up at her, and though his blue eyes are guarded, they are not unkind. 

“None - I have never sought to ask for favour from another in order to achieve victory, and I aim to never have the need.” 

“Valorous words from a man who wishes to best ‘someone’ such as me in battle.” Hope says, finishing with her belt and casting a sidelong smile at the Chevalier before turning in the direction of the training yard. “Let us play, then.” With a nod, she turns from Findos and starts off across the field and in the direction of echoing steel, pretending she did not see him tuck the bloom carefully into his belt. 

“It is five points for a strike to the mid-torso, ten for a pinpointed kill in that area. Two points for limbs, but another ten for hits on vital bleeding areas. Anything to the neck or throat is worth twenty, and in the unlikely event of a strike directly to the heart, fifty points are awarded. The head is worth only one, as it’s not our aim to bludgeon each other to death, but to work with efficiency where the body allows us.” Findos explains, following after Hope and matching her stride. “ We play to one hundred, and we are each required a shield.”

“I have no need for a shield, so I will forego mine.” 

Findos shakes his head. “Not in this game, miss. Requirement.” 

Hope exhales hard through her nose, but keeps her eyes turned forward.

“Very well,” She says. “I’ll do my best with it.” 

The yard is quiet by the time they close the distance to it; the ring of training soldiers that had rang out originally has given way to early morning quiet, and Hope presumes that this means the drill is over. 

Still settling dust greets her eyes as she and Findos pass through the gates to the yard, and her assumption is confirmed by the kicked up clouds of dirt that continue to hang in the air. 

Findos speaks before she can query, “A Chevalier does not linger where his purpose is complete, for he will always have more work to do.” He tells her, crossing to a small shed and unlocking it with a key hung from his belt. “That goes for training too: They’re off now to tend beasts, cook food, and maintain the settlement.” 

“Yet you picked swinging swords at each other as a way to contribute today?” Hope inquires earnestly, pressing the toes of her right boot into the loose dirt and pushing her heel up to alleviate the tightness around her foot. 

“We must assume that those who would kill us are picking up their swords to do so as we speak - we contribute by picking up our own, and being ready for them, spirit.” 

It as though he doesn’t comprehend, she decides as she watches him inspect the selection of blunted swords in the shed and pore over nicked and dented shields: The words that he speaks are just that - words. They stream from his lips at command as noble and obedient assurances that he truly believes their meaning. Conviction hangs from them and Earnesty must truly smile on this man from the Fade, but to Hope they are as elaborate an illusion as the fine armour that sheathes his perfectly average physical form: He picks up these tattered swords and beaten shields and inspects them with such care because they are the only thing he believes in: They are the only thing left with some truth to them, and every scratch and mar in these tools is the last tangible proof he has that all in this world of his is not false. 

She decides that she will tell him that she knows this some day, but not on this one: That which compels us to carry on often retains its strength in the fact that it need not be spoken in order to be potent. 

“Right then, Chevalier,” She says instead, removing the sword belt she had so fussed with minutes earlier. She accepts the sword and shield from the warrior, leaning the sword against her leg as she slips her left arm through the tattered enarmes of the blocker. “On this day you shall do battle against a spirit older than your grandfather’s-grandfather’s-grandfather’s breath of life.” She seizes the grip of the sword when she is ready, and rolls back her arms, creaking all the way. “Would it bolster your spirit to fantasize that I am some demon to be struck down?” 

Findos grins at her and prepares himself as well: Enarmes slide with ease down his smooth gauntlets, and his grip has been optimized from the moment the leather fell to his palm. He had not leant his sword against his leg like Hope had; he had rested it on his shoulder instead. He now lifts it from its place and arcs it downward through the air with practiced ease. 

“You think I am not used to an opponent who would distract me with idle chat, spirit. Need I remind you? I am Orlesian.” He smirks at Hope and makes to the ring beyond the fence. 

“A meaningless word to me.” Hope tells him, forming up across from her target some ten yards away from him. “I pledge you my silence during this fight, if it might cull your insistence of doing that very same thing which you mock.” 

From the gap in his visor, Hope can see Findos’ brow furrow in the increasingly familiar expression he has taken to making whenever she gives him cause to wonder if he has just been insulted somehow. 

“ _ Pr _ _ êt? _ ” The Chevalier calls. 

Hope shifts the shield on her left arm, but does not adjust the grip she has on the sword; that is steadfast. 

“ _ Prêt! _ ” She responds, rooting her weight between her forward left leg and her core. 

“ _ Tirant dans! _ ” Findos hollers, his voice ringing around the walls of the yard; the disciplined voice of a soldier. “ _ Trois! _ ”

Hope stares at her foe; he is coiled like she, muscles set to spring when the moment is called. 

“ _ Deux! _ ” 

Flimsy morning sunlight glints from his armour and catches on the shining and colourful feathers atop his helm. 

“ _ Un!! _ ” 

The final number rings out into the air, and Hope moves forward; not overly quick, but with enough haste to maintain her footing when her shield meets Findos’. The well-worn surfaces scrape over one another, and Hope leans into the impact enough to prevent herself from staggering. 

There is but the slightest adjustment of the displacement of weight against her, and her action betrays her as Findos leverages his momentum against hers and skims tidily around her shield to her side where he presses the dull edge of his blade gently, but unmistakably to the back of her thigh. 

“Two.” He tells her, stepping back and resuming stance. “You would not bleed out immediately from a strike there. If you were lucky enough to have a medic like Henri nearby, you might even get to keep the leg if he got to you quickly enough.” 

A foolish mistake, Hope decides, stepping back and re-grouping: One that will not happen again. 

“Ser Chevalier you disregard the rules of our fight - your continued speaking dishonours us.” She taunts calmly, this time being the first to move. 

Findos is clever enough to not use the same tactic twice in a row, and rather than meeting her rush, instead evades it, rocking back far enough to evade Hope’s fast upward swing and sinking down in order to push back and up on her shield with his own before her stroke has finished its completion. 

Staggering backwards, Hope regains control over her movement by letting her arm fly with the sword, following it forward once the circle has completed. A vicious stab is guided by the curved top of her shield and the notches that lay within it, and Findos narrowly dodges the attack that would have struck him squarely in the left shoulder had he not succeeded. 

She is rewarded with a brutal sideways swing that would shatter most shields, but she steps aside and raises the arm before Findos’ strike lands. Turning in place, she resolves that she dislikes the shield and its cumbersome nature: It takes up pointless space and costs her valuable speed. 

“You’re supposed to block with it, not coddle it!” Findos taunts.  

Hope is quite sure she has heard similar words uttered by another soldier at some point in her watchings of the world, but she does not bother putting specifics to the observance: Findos is winding up to strike again, and though he is only two points ahead, she has little doubt that he will aim to get this over with as quickly as possible. 

Raising her blade and feinting to the right, she steps back as Findos leans forward with his shield. Pushing her hips forward, she catches the toe of her boot on the edge of her shield and flicks the tip of it upwards to an angle high enough that the pointed edge sweeps Findos’ shield aside and contacts firmly with the armour at his sternum. 

She’s reasonably certain that this is not how shields are typically handled, but the tactic works and Findos takes a deep breath through what Hope knows to be decently winded lungs: Games aside, she knows that by her hand, a proper hit like that on a man, would have crushed his chest: Ten points to her. 

The lead is short lived, however. In a sequence of movements too clean and precise to be improvised, the Chevalier lands three tidy hits on Hope: One to the upper area of her shield arm, one to the insider of her right elbow, and finally one to the side of her right side of her neck just under her jawbone. 

Realizing that she has a lot of ground to gain suddenly, Hope drops her left arm and lets the shield slide from it. Findos still has the point of the sword pressed to her neck, and he says, “Pick it up.” 

Hope raises her own sword in reply, pushing Findos’ away from her neck with the sound of ragged steel raking over ragged steel. 

“No.” She says, staring down the warrior.

“Pick up the shield, spirit.” 

“Why should I have to play by the rules when you so callously disregard them yourself, Chevalier? There is honour in rules, but only when they serve your purpose, is that correct?” Hope asks, completing the parry and putting distance between the pair of them once more. She lifts the sword with both hands now, sinking into a stance that is more comfortable and familiar to her. “Or do you suppose the Old Ones would politely cater to your insistence of choosing the arms by which they would slaughter you?” 

Idiosyncrasies. 

Chevaliers… they dream of such things as great bears mauling packs of ferocious wolves with their great claws, and of quick men catching apples that fly from nowhere. 

This one is now trying to catch fish with a spear now that the fish is without a shield: He aims to conserve his energy and time his strikes with utmost efficiency and accuracy lest the faster fish evade his strikes and exhaust him. 

Findos strikes, kicking out at her past his shield while twisting a vicious downwards strike with his blade. Hope steps past the kick, locks her legs against his outstretched one, knocks his shield aside with the pommel of her sword, presses it gently across his exposed throat, frees a hand, grasps his sword arm by the wrist, and pulls it down, catching the back of his shoulders with her blade as he unwillingly bows to her. One final sweep with her sword arm leverages the shield such that it would tear his arm out of joint if she pulled back any more, and with but a tap of her gloved fingers over his heart, Findos is blasted backwards by magic so hard he sees the world go green for a moment. 

“Others like me will not be so accommodating when it comes to your strange games,” Hope tells him, aiding him to his feet. “And they will be even less interested in the rules than I am.”

“A hopeful sentiment,” Findos bites out sarcastically, tugging off his helmet and airing his rather red and sweaty face. “I hope you’re proud of yourself then, missy.” 

“Hope. You got it right. I’m Hope.” She smiles warmly at him and feels blood seep between her teeth, but she pays it no mind: She is far more focused on the curiously uplifting sensation that swells within her when he levels a good-humored smile back at her. “And you and I are going to slay gods together, Ser Findos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was late! So late! 
> 
> All I've been doing lately is drowning in angst and playing FFXIV. 
> 
> Ah well... hope you enjoyed the rather fun, light, and fluffy chapter <3


	9. Chapter 9

It is late at night, and though the tent next to hers is silent, the still-waking state of Findos is obvious to her: His essence feels familiar to her now, and even being in close proximity to him, she can tell that his mind does not rest, nor does his spirit wander the Fade as humans are wont to do as they sleep.

She doesn’t really need to sleep, being a spirit and all, but she does try to accustom herself to the idea of it, and has found that a night of sleep leaves one’s body and mind feeling quite nice when the sun rises. 

Idiosyncrasies.

Sitting in dim silence in her own tent, she ponders the alertness of the man a few yards away from her, separated by small space and canvas walls. Does she know that she is still awake as well? Can he feel her presence and thoughts like she can feel his?

The quiet rustle of blankets shifting along with a few muttered curse-words inform her that likely he does not, but these actions do impart his frustration to Hope: He desires sleep, he is simply unable to obtain it. 

Hope draws her teeth over her bottom lip as she considers this; it is not the first night she has observed his dissatisfaction, though tonight seems especially bad: Despair and Fear press against the Veil nearby, like naughty children with their ears pressed to a door - they hunt the Chevalier. 

Can’t have that, Hope decides, and with a decisive movement, rises from her own bedroll and further lightens the tent with a gesture at the candles nearby: She has plans for the night already, but this will not take long. 

El’una Lavellan worked similar magic on a friend once, and by this action Hope is inspired to do the same now: Even in life, the elf seemed to understand the importance of sleep. 

Quietly Hope moves within the tent, scrounging up what materials she can; a soft square of clean fleece; a fresh candle; some oil of lavender she had purchased the day before from the commissary because she liked the scent of it. She sets the items on the table with the candles, and kneels, fingers digging at the earth until she draws a small, smooth stone from it. She holds it up to the light and surveys the object; a plain, uninspiring river stone - gray with thin white lines around it. Hardly appropriate for the spell she wishes to work, and blatantly dull in terms of connection to the Fade. 

This will not do. 

She clenches the stone in her fist and brings it to her lips. Softly she speaks to it; old words - the language of earth. She entreats the lifeless object to its core, reminds it of the water that contributed to its making and shaping, tells it of the millennia of work that has gone into its existence today. Hope patiently counts the grains of sand that spelled out the stone’s humble beginning and then she addresses them one by one, and then the stone as a whole: Be more.

The stone is silent as she speaks, for rock is resistant to the song without even realizing it: Stone is tricky and stubborn without meaning to be.

Hope smiles at the rock clenched in her hand: She really believes in it.

The stone remains silent, but when her fingers unfurl, a roughly shaped lump of frosty quartz sits in her palm. 

“I knew you had it in you,” Hope whispers confidently, beaming at the crystal. “Shall we get to work then?” She asks, rising from the ground and crossing to the Chevalier standard issue pack Findos had insisted on her taking. She digs around in the nearly empty bag for a moment and withdraws a single feather; bright white, large, and immaculate in shape and condition. 

If she had learned anything from observing El’una, it had been that magic meant to work on a specific person generally worked best if the one casting the spell had a possession belonging to the target. 

Hope hadn’t known El’una on an especially personal level, but she could almost hear the dead woman’s voice explaining the concept to her the other day when Hope had waited till no one was looking and casually plucked the feather from Findos’ helm: “Any curse, blessing, hex, or ward will work best if you own something that belonged to the person whom you wish to work the magic on. If they gave it to you of their own free will, that is best, for there is no deception in such an acquisition - especially if the item was given to you for safe keeping, our out of good faith. Gifts do not work so well because they no longer belong to the person who has given them, but they will function to an extent. If you must, you can steal an item, but take care that you have not stolen it in the spirit of malice or greed: Nothing is worse than casting a curse and having it backfire because the item you’re working with knows it has been wronged. If at all possible, return a stolen item after the spell has been cast - your intent forms the function.” 

Again with the idiosyncrasies. 

She’s still not quite sure how she’ll go about giving the feather back to Findos without him getting rather upset, but he hasn’t missed it so far, and right now having him get a good night of sleep is more important than the potential of his ire. 

Humming the old song to herself, she begins arranging the spell, creating a circle on the fleece with the lavender oil and taking a moment to deeply inhale and savour the soothing aroma that wafts around the tent. She places the glorified river stone and the feather in the center of the circle and ponders her intent: Mortals are strange. When given the knowledge that this sort of magic is possible, the things they clamour over are either love or pain: How can I make this person fall in love with me? How can I harm this person? Generally, it is one or the other… sometimes both: Regardless, it is a fixation of mortals to control people with magic rather than help them.

Did they not realize that while Findos’ feather was held in the hand of a being that could cause him immense suffering, or have him kneeling at her feet, the being instead felt only compelled to help without expectation? 

Should people not want to help each other before controlling each other? The Fade is selfless and lacks identity; Hope’s goal is not to form the Fade in her favour - instead, she only desires to direct it favourably towards the sleepless Chevalier in the tent next to her. 

She does not want his thanks for it. 

She does not want his praise. 

She does not do this with the assumption that doing so will win his affection.

She does it because she is someone who can, and because it is the right thing to do. 

Somewhere on the other side of the Veil, she can feel spirits of Justice twitch and turn at attention to her thoughts, and she realizes then that she is homesick. 

That is not the point right now, however. So she tucks the feeling away and turns to the small altar she has prepared. 

Standing before the table, she lifts the feather in one hand and the stone in the other before closing her eyes, inhaling deeply and beginning her chant. 

“May he sleep; Astor Gentry Findos - may he rest and awaken renewed. May he sleep, Astor Gentry Findos - may he rest and awaken renewed… may he sleep, Astor Gentry Findos - may he rest and awaken renewed… may he sleep, Astor Gentry Findos - may he rest and awaken renewed…” 

Clutching the feather and the stone she draws breath steadily; in through the nose and out through the mouth, matching her pace with the rhythm of a sleeping person - long, drawn out and steady. Captured in her mind’s eyes is the square of warm, soft fleece and the relaxing scent of lavender that rises from it. She directs this comfort to the object of her intent, and with the quartz gripped in her hand gently shoos away the naughty children at the Veil who seek to cling to Findos. 

She has no idea if the blessing is actually working; that is not how this sort of magic works, she understands. What is important now, is that she keeps going. 

Hope continues her chant until she is no longer able; until she feels her arms becoming weighty and her own eyes feeling heavy. With a final entreatment, she reverently sets the feather and stone back within the circle and snuffs the candles before taking to her own bedroll and closing her eyes. 

A smile pulls at her lips before she drifts into the next planned event for the evening: a few yards away beyond canvas and space, Findos is snoring softly.


	10. Chapter 10

Against his better judgement, he finds himself wandering the familiar hallways of Skyhold. For days he has resisted the fortress in the distance, reminding himself that there is no longer anything for him there but a dead woman in the earth.

Yet here he is, following the staircases, passing through the great wooden doors of the main hall, turning left, and rising up the stairs to the chamber that belonged to his beloved.

It doesn’t feel the same, however: The air in the fortress is stale and cold, filled with dust and memories of louder and warmer times. Where this place once felt like home, it is now the tattered remnant of a page torn from a much thicker book.

Despite this, he is still compelled to push open the door to the Inquisitor’s chambers, and he is unsurprised when the same variety of disrepair meets his eyes: Dust and a thin sheen of frost coats the bed. The windows to the balcony look to have been blown open by a storm some months ago, and there are books and papers scattered all about the floor.

There is not a single footprint on the cold stone: Not one robber or treasure-seeker has been bold enough to step over the threshold of this sacred room.

And yet someone sings.

His eyes snap in direction of the source of the sound; the small water closet on the other side of the room. There are no words to this song, at least none that he recognizes. Instead it is more or a gentle and rhythmic hum that is simple and unadorned, but unlike anything he has ever heard before.

His feet move towards the source with little but a thought and perhaps a cautionary inflection from what of Mythal he carries with him, but they propel him regardless.

The warm skin of his palm melts the frost on the door where he touches it to push it open, and as his eyes adjust to the warm candlelight within, the singing voice ceases to sing and says, “Hello, Strange Solas.”

Caught immensely off guard, and still unable to clearly make out the figure that reclines in the tub of water, Solas takes a step back - that voice: He need not see the speaker, for he knows quite well who owns this timbre.

“There is no need to retreat; there’s nothing here that you haven’t seen before.” El’una points out helpfully, and he hears the sound of legs cutting through water.

“This is a dream.” He points out, less to the figment of El’una, and more to himself.

“How right you are.” His beloved agrees, and as his eyes finally adjust properly, he is able to recognize the familiar smile beaming at him from the candlelight.

He does not want to be here: In coming to this place, he considered that El’una’s memory would linger thick in the Fade, but he did not expect it to manifest in quite this manner. He tries to leave.

He can’t.

“So shy, vhenan! I’ve only been in the ground for a few months; is that all it takes for a man like you to make your peace with my passing? And here I thought you would be delighted to see me again.” She purses her lips in a familiar way and draws her hand over the water, leaving it a deep green. A smell like mint and pine needles rises from the glittering water. “I had always wondered how she did that…” El’una admits, smiling at the sumptuous bathwater.

“You are not even a memory.” He retorts at her words; this spirit has all but given itself away with its complacency. “You take her guise in a brazen attempt to bend me. If I may suggest you drop the ruse; it will not work on me.”

“Ruse?” The likeness of El’una repeats, looking at him with an expression of puzzlement. “There is no ruse here, Pride: This is my true likeness.”

“Impossible.” Solas snaps. “You do not even speak like her; your facade is a poor imitation at best.”

As if he were not even there, the phantom of El’una takes the soap next to the tub and washes herself - slowly, tauntingly. Each scoop of water carefully splashed over familiar breasts is so many more ounces of discomfort to him as she carries on in silence until she is finished.

“Baths are quite nice things,” She says. “Relaxing. Renewing - I rather like them I think.”

Solas turns his gaze when El’una rises to her feet from the water and steps from the tub. He hears the rustle of cotton as she towels herself, and the dripping of water fleeing from her skin to meet the stone floor. Her eyes burn into him, but not in the way that _her_ eyes burned into him.

“Well Dread Wolf; what have you to say?”

“You,” Is all he manages.

“Me?”

“You are the one who has been tormenting and killing my people.”

“You are not the only one who can breach the minds of the living,” El’una informs him, and he looks up for only a second to see her naked form rustling her hair with the towel. “All of that was but a reminder.”

“They were innocent!”

“Yes! Just like the thousands of innocents that will die in horror when you tear down the Veil and set free the Old Ones while you single-handedly desire to bring them to justice! Of all people, you are hardly in a position to lecture me on the expenditure of innocent lives in order to achieve a goal, Dread Wolf.”

Solas frowns; El’una could be quite sharp-tongued when pressed, but this spirit had just outright insulted him with such a casual air she might as well have been commenting on the weather.

This jogs a memory of an uncomfortably meeting between himself and a similar spirit, and the factuality of his current scenario slams into him like a boulder.

“The Golden One,” He accuses with certainty. “You don’t look like yourself.”

“I look like how myself looks like these days.” The spirit mentions, doffing the towel on the back of a chair set in the corner. Solas again looks away from her nakedness. “Not at the top of the list as far as favoured shapes I’ve taken, but this world doesn’t seem equipped to react well to amorphous, golden clouds and beings of light.”

Torn between utterly offended and feeling foolish for thinking this could actually be El’una in any way, Solas bites out, “You took her form?”

“Plainly,” The spirit responds.

“And… what shall I call you?” He asks. “I shall hardly do her memory the insult of addressing you by _her_ name.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Pride: To take El’una’s name would be claiming her person, which I have no intention of doing: You may call me Hope, for that is what I am.”

“You are aware that there are people in this world who would consider your act of tempting mortal people to their own demise to be something demonic in nature and worthy of death?” Solas points out, not even slightly over the brashness this spirit possesses in both flippant words and demeanour; such little tact this being has. If anything it seems to revel in the discomfort of their meeting. Yes, there is a certain sense of indignity pushed upon him in this dream, though he cannot bring himself to accept that he doesn’t entirely deserve it. Should he even be surprised? Upon their last meeting in the Fade, this spirit - or Hope as it calls itself - had expressed its interest in El’una in plain enough words.

He never thought it would come to this, though.

Regardless of circumstance, he finishes his point, “It would serve you well to be mindful of what fear makes mortals capable of if you wish to walk this world for long.”

“I made no effort to frighten mortals. You were the sole target, and while I regret the losses of the few that fell by my hand, I have brought you to this place tonight so that we may parley, Pride; I would like to wake in a world where I mustn’t raise my hand to someone unless they raise one to me first.”

“Then it may behoove you to keep dreaming,” Solas smirks slightly and turns when he feels the phantom of his beloved wisp past him and into the main bedchamber, dried, stunning, and fully dressed in a simple white cotton gown that covers her arms and is cut modestly across the neckline. Now that he can see her in the crisp winter daylight that spills in from the opened doors, he can see very little evidence that this is someone other than the woman he came to know so well.

The dress truly is the largest betrayal of identity; El’una would never choose to wear such a garment, and her form - while looking comfortable enough in it - still seems slightly unbelievable without the array of coloured fabrics and dangling trinkets that the real El’una had been preferable to. _Magpie_ , Varric called her for all of her oddities and patchwork that adorned her daily. Deep down, Solas had always taken joy in the appropriate moniker.

What stands before him now brings to mind less a magpie, and something akin to a sort of strangely bright raven; the rough familiarity of El’una Lavellan wrapped in the garb and bearing of a fantasy woven in the mind of some romantic poet: Something that cannot exist, despite its insistence on proving otherwise.

Further inspection leads him to believe that he has never seen El’una’s hair quite so clean and groomed, nor her skin so unblemished by bruises or fading scars. This spirit did not resume the vallaslin that once belonged to the dalish elf, but beyond that, all other aspects… her eyes, her cheeks, the flatness of her hips and the broadness of her shoulders… they are true. His eyes drift down to her left arm.

The last time he had laid eyes upon it, it was a goulish conjuration wrought by blood magic and desperation; a gruesome artification of waxy gray skin and blackened veins, held together by muscle and flesh that looked loose and easily torn. This too has changed. Instead the hand that stretches to lazily pick up loose sheets of parchment and forgotten books is more or less hale and whole, though he is quite sure he can read the title of a book beyond it, and when fingers flex and grip, they catch the light and shimmer rather like fish scales, giving off a myriad of strange colours and a faint but familiar golden aura. This beyond all else is indication of a separate identity; this being, for all of its shining spiritual similarity has never and will never be El’una Lavellan.

What it could possibly want with him, and why it had felt so compelled to come into this world with her likeness, and particularly why he would be even remotely inclined to play along with her request for parley is something that escapes him. He tells the spirit as much, though the sentiment is communicated with few words that slip brittly from his lips, betraying him:

“Why her?”

Aloof and condescending air aside, the spirit places the items she has collected on the desk, not bothering to organize them, but instead just leaving them in a stack. She dusts off her hands and turns to him, eyes reflecting the purity of her essence.

“Life itself from its very first breath has been compelled by the supposed and often foolhardy belief placed in itself; that is, its very perseverance. To the best of my knowledge, no one asked for life to be. Not a single order was given, nor a command made that set fires of duty and triumph in its heart so as to fan it onwards through the chaos and struggle that is just as much a part of life as the breathing. It just _was_. Yet for all the was, there must always be something to was for, even if the was itself remains a mystery. That essence cannot be undone. It can be weakened and dampened and plagued by things such as despair and doubt, but even when the highest of hopes have all but fled and life is faced is faced with complete demise, it rearranges its definitions of perseverance and forges on.

“What first drew me to El’una Lavellan was her oblivious adherence to this concept. In all truth, it was her despair that first caught my attention from the Fade; what I found was a woman wracked with doubt and pain, for she was not good enough to be loved, how could she be good enough to lead an Inquisition? I observed silently as she lingered in dreams and let her cheeks be wet there rather than in waking. I watched her pace the very room we stand in now, speaking to herself, rationalizing her loss, feeling the emotions that came with it, and eventually resolving to take to heart the advice she had been rendered by the one who had wounded her so. Her hope for this love was lost, but just as life does the same, the Inquisitor rearranged her meaning of the word: She may not place her faith in a life with her beloved and the happiness and future that could come from it, but instead, she may choose to place it in other things, for though her heart was broken, her ego battered, and her faith in love shaken, she still had breath in her lungs and was by no means struck dead by this misfortune: There was still more to be done.”

Hope breaks off and pauses, staring silently at the abandoned bed for a moment with an odd expression on her face before she seems to realize her stupor and returns her gaze to Solas, who has taken a place in the chair behind the Inquisitor’s desk, his hands neatly folded on his lap as he listens intently; Offended or not, there is something marvelous in this spirit’s explanation, and the fact alone that a being of such age and power has seen fit to manifest physically in this world. He had told El’una himself that he found her to be much more than what he expected, was it any surprise that there might be other energies out there who thought similarly?

“I found this intriguing. The hopeful and the hopeless number endless in the Fade, so it is not as though I labour under the impression that these concepts are fleeting in this place. Yet there was something about that elf that had me returning not only at night while she slumbered, but times during the day where I would press against the thinnest parts of the Veil that I could find as I followed her from place to place, observing as time and time again she would elicit and demonstrate this behaviour, not only in thoughts and words, but in actions. Imagine my delight and surprise when you retrieved your mark from her: As I looked on at the place you filled with unmoving horned-ones, I could feel naught but a strong need to interfere: With some few words I could have broken through the Veil, and set both of you to vigour. It occurred to me then, that her words and manner, her questions and rebukes… they carried more power; more weight and meaning than I could ever provide. She had such belief in you, Pride. Such hope for you, even as you twisted the blade in the meaning she had so painstakingly rebuilt.

“Most misunderstand what I am: Those who utter my name often speak it with flaccid meaning: Hopes are whispered for luck and wealth. Hopes are blurted, cavalier from the lips of a drunk warrior in the face of a foe. They are thought silently by old maids and young men who fall asleep at night clinging to the face and voice of their beloved gripped tightly in their mind’s eye, lest it be gone in the morning when they wake.

“My name is cheap to many; a simple and convenient term applied to things they desire to possess. What has been forgotten about me… what makes it nearly pointless for those such as me to come to a place like this, is that there is such weight put in these frivolous ambitions: The true, persevering hope of life is all but overlooked and forgotten until such time arises that it is suddenly the largest, brightest, and strongest hope ever experienced. It is easy to hope for something, and it is a truly different matter to _have_ hope for it.

“Even as you betrayed every hope El’una Lavellan had and left her with the remnants of an arm and a heart, her parting words to you resonated deeply insofar as what I am.

“I followed her still afterwards, waging many an unknowable battle against Despair along the way, observing as silently as ever as once again her definition of perseverance was rearranged, and every action made was made of the rigid refusal to believe anything otherwise than your mind could be changed about the Veil.”

Solas speaks now, his throat feeling curiously dry for the climate and the fact that this is a dream.

“You watched her for long enough… you saw her become ill. You watched her die. You sat silently by and waited, and now you intend to see this hope through?” He mouths, lifting his eyes from the tattered Inquisition manifest that hangs half-emptied from the corner of the desk.

Hope looks up as well from across the room and finishes tucking a daffodil into the vase of wildflowers on the table before her. A motherly smile is something El’una never possessed, but her face pulls into the likeness of one now.

“Not entirely. The elf-girl was inspiring, and her cause left me with a great need for action, but to pursue but only one path to ideal fulfilment in this scenario will leave much to be desired. El’una Lavellan possessed remarkable spirit, strength, and wit, but for all of her self-earned victories, and the small help I added along the way, she was not equipped to see the scope of what lays at stake.”

“And you are?” Solas scoffs before he is able to catch himself. “You have negligible understanding of this world is and how it works.”

It is Hope’s turn to gesture sarcastically now, and she sweeps a dismissive hand through the air before saying, “I recall when you were sung into being, and I also recall when you were sung into form by the Lady Mythal… as you called her then.” The smirk slides from her face though, and she says, “The cause of El’una Lavellan was just and true. Yours is also just and true, Pride. It takes one only a single glance at the world as it is now to feel something dark and broken coursing through its veins. Aside from that, I noticed something very peculiar in my travels with the Inquisitor - have you any idea what it is?”

“No,” Solas lies.

Hope seems to take this in stride, and settles herself across the desk from him. “There were times in my journey where things would happen: The Inquisitor would be travelling through a poor farming town plagued by drought for months on end and the skies shone blue above, and she and her companions would rest for the night, thus forcing me to stay in one place. Sometimes… only sometimes, the despair of the farmers; that desperate, chaotic hope of these men, would strike me. In this one such place, it was but a matter of reaching forth and coaxing rain from the sky, but it was a reach regardless. The fact alone that I was able to interfere in such a way in a world that is meant to be divided from the Fade was startling. I didn’t encounter these places overly often, but towards the end of my travels, they occurred with increasing frequency. At times I was almost certain El’una Lavellan was able to hear me and feel my presence. That leads me to understand only one thing: Your Veil is deteriorating. With enough time, it will cease to exist entirely, but before that it will all but rot away.”

Solas purses his lips grimly. “It was never intended to last forever,” He admits. “But it was meant to last considerably longer than this.”

“That despicable thing: The one that originally coveted your power… the hastened weakening was caused by that incident, yes?”

“I believe so,” Solas answers, feeling his lips curl into an expression that must be caught somewhere between a bitter smile and a wince; the spirit insists on calling him Pride, and it is indeed a sharp stick poked with precision into all of the right places: It excels at making him feel like a fool. “Knowing this where El’una did not, I assume that you comprehend the consequences of leaving it to simply decay and wish for the best?”

“Escapes me why didn’t just tell her then along with the rest of it, if I’m to be perfectly honest.” Hope quips, shifting in her seat, and Solas is caught off guard by how very El’una that statement was. He can’t help but wonder what other aspects of this remembered person she may have maintained; spirit-kind does not often take the form of those already dead, but on the rare occasion that it does, it is not uncommon to hear of the spirit retaining random likes and dislikes, mannerisms, or rarely verbiage and manner of speaking. Unable to rule out the possibility, he nods, prompting her to continue. “But yes, from what I can see those places where I was able to exert my influence on the world will grow in number and continue to thin and expand until eventually portions give way entirely. While it’s not nearly as immediately catastrophic as forcibly tearing it, spirits will remain curious, and while many have fled deep into the Fade due to recent events, not all have. There will be open doors, and that is not only a threat to spirits going through it, but also to people being equally curious and doing the same.”

Interest legitimately piqued by this spirit’s ability to not only understand such concepts, but also rationalize a solution, Solas sits forward. “So what would you do in order to prevent the smouldering coals from burning unnoticed until they have erupted into flame beyond quenching?”

“Exactly what you intend to do,” Hope surprises him again. “But indeed with a far more optimistic approach: You must realize Pride, that the world will never be as it was before, nor will it bend to your idealistic will. Those who call this world their home deserve as much a chance to persevere as the ancient elvhen, as yourself, and as El’una Lavellan. I come to you now so that we may instead work together in the days to come, and that there is less darkness and despair than there needs be.” Her strange eyes meet his own and he is unable to look away as she says, “You are not a bad person, Pride. Nor are you entirely unflawed… but the time has come for you to rise above what you have always known and become that which you choose to be. Choosing is not a simple matter, but though I have seen little of this world, I truly believe that it can be saved for the better.”

“What proof have you seen?” He asks. Hope’s words move him, as he assumes they moved his scout to leap off a cliff: They are powerful and ancient and wise, but they are still words. Hope has lingered in the Fade for presumable millenia, getting close enough to life to be bolstered by its faith in it, but never close enough to truly comprehend the suffering, confusion, and depravity that was disastrous in the days of Arlathan, and a runaway plague now. She has walked, waking for less than a few months by his knowledge, and his renewed understanding of Arl Teagan’s bounty proves that already there are people seeking her destruction.

“Those whom I travel with,” Hope answers easily, crossing her arms over her chest. Strange, faintly luminescent fingers tip-tap rhythmically against her shoulder. “Would you like to hear about them? I’ve little fear in you swooping in for a brazen ambush - you would not triumph regardless.”

Solas lifts an eyebrow. “You have great faith in these mortal companions - have they any idea what you are?”

“But of course. I travel with a battalion of noble Chevaliers - human men of no more than thirty-five summers at the oldest. They know of who I look like and what I truly am, yet they lift no blade to me, nor plot against me for their loyalty to their commanding officer.”

“And why might he decide to set aside all he knows of the Chantry and travel with what would be referred to in nearly all of his circles as a demon? Not to mention his sworn vows to the Empress of Orlais; you cannot possibly think these men to be pliable servants to your cause when they have one of their own already. These are men who will die in the name of madness, so long as the finger pointing them to their demise belongs to Celene.”

“Perhaps,” Hope smiles curtly, “But for all of their oath-taking and sword-swearing, they are still people at their core, and I do believe they are people who hunger for something more.”

“You are unwise to trust them.” Solas says bluntly.

“I never implied that I wasn’t… but I am not Wisdom, am I? Who we are - it is impossible for those like us to turn our backs fully on our reality, Pride.” Her smile warms again, and the expression is so like El’una that he can nearly feel his heart physically hurting. “This isn’t about them however: This moment is about you and I. I have laid my proposition regarding the falling of the Veil bare. What say you in answer?”

Solas leans back again, feigning a pensieve stance: His mind has been made already, and the clever words of Hope have done little to sway them from the start - mitigation and salvation would lead only to the fallow seeds of the poison in this world to lay dormant but alive, waiting until they could breach the soil again and set this nightmare once again in motion. It would be unfair and foolish to assume this embodiment of Hope was anything less than a potent spirit: In the long run, it may be wiser to play by these rules in an effort to keep more flame from his heels, but at this point, the entire building is on fire anyway, so it hardly matters.

He looks to the woman across from him. Her face… it’s so familiar; so real. It is strange to gaze upon it and see it wearing a neutral expression as opposed to one crippled and twisted with grief and pain.

This realization does not make him feel any better.

But this is not El’una, and he does not owe this spirit neither the pain or loyalty that belongs to his love: There is no recognition in her face when she looks upon him and smiles, no sensation of lingering memory and affection - it is someone who looks like El’una, standing before him as a perfect and hollow vessel of everything that he not only gave up, but destroyed willingly. This spirit does not love him. It does not know him. It may speak kindly to him and revere him with instances and memories that belonged by El’una, but it is vacant and empty in true feeling - it does not care about him. It cares about doing what it feels compelled to do in this world.

El’una is truly dead.

“I will make no movement of aggression towards yourself or these Chevaliers of yours,” He resolves after a time. “But further interference will be met with appropriate retaliation. When you can prove to me that what you say has claws of legitimacy or even probability, I will consider the options. At present, I reject you and everything that you claim to be.” He stands in a smooth motion and Hope matches him, giving little away. “Have we finished here?” He asks coolly.

“It would seem.” Hope remarks. “I’ll be seeing you in Orlais, Pride.”

“Orlais?” He begins asking, but before he can linger for an answer, he awakens within the ruined surveillance outpost he has called home for weeks.

There is howling in the distant night: The creatures making the sounds are not wolves.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of late Valentine's Day fluff. I may have been 3/4's of the way through a bottle of wine when this poured out of my head. Enjoy! <3

“Enough of that now, though. We are within Orlesian borders, well protected, and have ample food and drink at hand - a Chevalier thrusts himself, body and soul into the protection of the land, but he also embraces his fleeting moments of leisure!” With a broad grin, Findos turns to the bar. 

“One for each of us!” He tells the barmaid. “Top left of your shelf.” 

“One?” Hope repeats, confused. “One what? Bottle?” 

“Ha!” Henri laughs behind Hope’s shoulder, causing her to start. “You hear that, Ser? This one reckons you’ve enough gold to buy a bottle of 9:31 port for each of us. Even you’re not that bloody gilded.” The medic japes, tipping back an invisible goblet and raising a cultured pinky with a crude expression on his moustached face. 

“The year it all began, eh?” Findos mentions to Hope, and a brief moment of nostalgia seems to camp in his eyes. She has no idea what he means by this, however; a number of things began and finished in that span of time by her observance - the lack of specification leaves her floundering for a suitable retort, so instead she smiles obligingly and nods. “Just a course though - a small measure: Easily handled,” he winks encouragingly at her, seeming to note the utterly aghast pull of her face. “I’m not made of gold.” 

Hope glances over her shoulders and back to Findos. “You intend to inebriate me?” 

“I intend to inebriate everyone of us, including myself.” Findos answers, one of his eyebrows rising flippantly. “Surely in your proclaimed eons of existence you’ve come to understand the jollity of raising a glass with your kin.”

“Difficult to comprehend or act upon the mechanics of ‘drinking’ where I come from,” Hope quips, staring at the small measure of ruby coloured liquid before her. 

“You need not participate if it you’re not up to it - this is just sort of customary for us when we return from abroad. Of course, your gracious company would be held in esteem if you saw fit to stay.” 

“Sugared words employed to flatter, Chevalier.” Hope mentions, carefully brushing the crystal stem of the vessel before her with her fingertips; it seems so fragile and brittle to her: As if the slightest twitch of fingers could snap the thin column between them. She removes her fingers from the crystal and returns her eyes to Findos. “When did you begin to labour under the impression that I might be swayed by such things?” 

“You’ve not left yet.” Findos shrugs. 

At his words, Hope straightens her back properly, raising her chin and chest. It is when she realizes she is looking down at the Chevalier she remembers that she is standing, where he is seated on a heightened stool - she innerly accepts that she may have taken a bit more reference for height from the Old Ones than those of El’una Lavellan’s age. 

“I find myself honoured to be considered worthy of partaking in your customs, Chevalier.” She says. “For one such as myself, at any rate.”

“You mean an abomination? A spirit? Findos guesses.

“Not even,” Hope intercedes, “But rather a woman… this does seem all a bit… well -” She waves a mock sword in the air, grits her teeth and pretends to clench her muscles, and Findos laughs at her motions.

“You are wrong, spirit. Even the Empress herself; the picture of femininity and grace would be called to this game, for it is not about titles or status or what one carries between their legs, but rather how well its participants keep their head.” 

“Decapitation cannot possibly be a consequence of a small drink.” Hope says doubtfully, following Findos’ suit and plucking the delicate crystal glass up from the bar. 

Findos nods in agreement but says, “That’s what Marquise Benoit Vessie thought too.” He looks around to the half dozen men around them and raises his glass further before returning his attention deliberately to Hope. “The very next words to come from your mouth shall be what we drink to,” He announces. 

“Pardon?” Hope asks, glancing around bewildered. 

“Love a good pardon,” Findos mutters before thrusting his glass of port in the air and bellowing, “To pardons!” 

“To pardons!!” The Chevaliers echo, and all of the men tilt their glasses to their lips and drain them in an instant. 

Left with no other clear course of action aside from adherence, Hope does the same, gulping down the perfect mouthful of fluid held in her glass. It tastes nice… sweet, but also rich, for her the simplest comparison is that of following in the spicy wake of Sophistication in the Fade… all deep colours and shades of foreign loves tempered with the slightest bit of self-destruction. Curious she decides, that so much of a spirit’s qualities could be captured within such crude senses as taste and scent. 

“She’s got it!” Findos cheers, and the Chevaliers join him in letting out a roar of victory. 

Hope stays silent until they finish, pushing her emptied glass away from her. 

“That’s it then?” She asks. “That’s all that this game consists of? If I may be frank, Ser Findos, I think I preferred the one in which we battle: That one called for some actual skill.” 

But Findos is not listening. 

“Second from the left, one round for all.” He is saying to the barmaid, and she is already stood on a stool, reaching for the bottle he has requested. “Oooh you’re going to hate this,” He says to Hope as if just realizing she was there. “Chasind Sack Mead - make you grow fangs if you haven’t got them tucked away somewhere already.” 

“You’re a bit of an arse, you know this, yes?” Hope prods. “Someone has surely told you before.” 

“Not one like you,” Findos admits, once again raising his filled course. “It was merely a jest, lady.”

“Lady?” Hope repeats, raising her glass as well. “And here I thought I was best known as ‘spirit’.”

“You’re certainly wearing a lady, I’ll give you that,” Findos says, tipping his glass against her. “What are we drinking to, lady?”

Carefully balancing the brimming quantity of liquid before her, Hope finally brings herself to smirk at the armorless, broad shouldered man before her. 

“To ladies of course.” She says.

“To ladies of course!” Findos roars, and as before the men shout back the same; Hope even cries out the words, though she is easily drowned out. 

The course is put back, though this one lingers in the back of her throat with an acrid burn and threatens to crawl back up from her stomach after she swallows. She feels her face twist and her shoulders shake involuntarily as she forces the liquid down. 

“Oui… the Chasind mead is unforgiving, but we must press on… there are three shelves in this bar - We will drink a course from each bottle until we reach the end, or until we concede.” 

“Stupid.” Hope says shortly. “Foolish.” 

“Fun.” Findos adds. “Anyone stupid and foolish enough to ride for the Orlesian Empire might consider this a welcome challenge. You speak of felling gods, spirit - shall you back down from a few mortal men who have sworn an oath to bring you no harm?” 

“The next then.” Hope concedes, rising to Findos’ bait for now; though her presence around his men feels like toleration at best, she has been given little reason to suspect duplicity from Findos himself - to her core she understands that his oath to deliver her to the empress is genuine, and that so long as she is careful to remain close to him, she knows she will come to no harm. 

“Third from the left!” The Chevalier calls, and Hope takes a long, deep breath: Perhaps this game is more challenging than she at first thought. 

* * *

“ - and further to that, may I add that the entire concept of smallclothes is absurd,” Hope declares, pointing an accusatory finger at Findos, who is rather red in the face and smiling at her with glazed eyes. “How does one explain such a thing?” She inquires, “‘Under our normal pants, we also wear smaller ones.’ What’s even the point?” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she takes a long drink from the flagon of ale in her hand. When Findos is silent following her miniature rant about the redundancy of underthings, she stares at him and says, “What?”

“Are you drunk, lady?” He asks, his smile growing slightly. 

“Of course not,” Hope replies, “At least not so drunk that I am acting a fool.” She waves her ale through the air and slops some of it on the bar. “That was entirely intentional,” she points out, “Enough stalling, Findos - we’ve still got bottles to conquer.” 

“Sound like a proper Chevalier,” the man points out, drinking from his own ale and lifting an eyebrow. “Didn’t know spirits could even get drunk…” he mutters. 

“Oh?” Hope inquires, “And why shouldn’t we? I may not have begun my existence in a physical form, but I certainly possess one now. It is as much flesh and blood as yours is, and thereby just as vulnerable to the effects of physical substances: You might have noticed the first time we met I was bleeding out all over the floor after being run through.” 

“Yes but shouldn’t you be ungodly strong, or something?” 

“If you’re going to look at it that way, I could simply remove the alcohol from my system with magic, but then you would lose another game, and I would be the last one standing. That hardly seems fun.” 

“Shall we further the challenge then? Play another game on top of this one?” Findos asks. 

Taking another drink, Hope swivels confidently in her seat to face the Chevalier. “If you’re up to it. But on the condition that I get to pick the game this time.” 

“Right then,” he agrees easily, “what do you have in mind?” 

“Have you ever held the gaze of a spirit?” 

“Of course not,” he chuckles, though the tips of his ears go a bit more red than they already are. 

“That is the game, then,” Hope nods. “You lot seem to put a lot of weight in the power and dominance of eye contact; I should like to try my hand at mastering this custom.” 

“You won’t win.” Findos says, shaking his head and readjusting his grip on his ale. “This is mine for the taking.” 

“Then why the delay, brave Chevalier?” Hope taunts. 

“Very well. Let us begin!” Findos exclaims valiantly, squaring to face her. There are mere inches between their knees, and a distinct closeness that comes from the simple act of being angled completely mirrored that Hope does not overlook. 

The Chevalier crosses his arms, and the spirit rests her mug of ale on her thighs and reclines comfortably into the back of her chair as Findos does: This may take awhile, his body says, and she heeds its warning. 

“Ready?” She asks. He nods. “Do you require a countdown for this too?” He shakes his head. “Then begin.” She lifts her eyes to meet his, and sets her focus on the blue irises across from her. 

Silent and concentrating, Hope ignores the din of soldiers and patrons around them, discounts the bard in the corner, overlooks the barman who she is mostly certain has just pocketed four silver from the till so that he might feed his sick daughter. All of these things count for nothing right now; they are little more than distractions that if given attention will cause her to falter, blink, and relinquish victory. 

Instead she ponders why this challenge came so easily to her, and what compelled her to pursue such a thing to begin with: Maintaining a gaze is an impressive and intimidating feat, but it is not one that has won wars or felled armies and gods. What prestige could be gained in the simple act of staring a person down? 

The thought makes her uncomfortable after a time, so she forces herself to once again simply focus on Findos, and the characteristics of the eyes she is anchored to. 

They betray his age and experience, his eyes. They have squinted into the sun and crinkled at the corners often: He is often outdoors and well-traveled, but not completely lacking in joy - an observance that lightens her heart, for up until now the Chevalier has made little indication that he is anything other than another piece in a mechanism much larger than himself, let alone one that has actually experienced any of that which makes the living… alive. 

She wonders what put the crinkles there to begin with. She’s never looked closely enough at El’una’s face to notice if there are any crinkles lingering around her own eyes. Making a mental note to investigate further at a later date, she also promises to seek out some crinkles if she is unsatisfied with the lack of her own: There is something about them that she likes.

Her focus drifts to her periphery when she becomes aware that this game has drawn spectators; Henri and at least three other soldiers have circled herself and Findos now, inquiring as to what exactly is going on.

“Staring contest,” Findos answers them briefly, keeping his eyes locked on Hope. 

“Seriously?” Henri asks. “You’re not a lad of twelve, ser.” 

“I’ll have you done for insubordination if you keep it up, Henri,” Findos smirks. “I think this one might actually be a challenge, honestly.” 

Hope merely smiles accommodatingly and takes a drink, keeping her line of sight clear of the brim and once again selectively drowning out these new distractions; they’re making her eyes itch. 

Blue. 

Deep. 

Cutting. 

Memories of handsome heroes saving dragon-captured maidens and toppling evil kings belong to these eyes, and yet Findos does not match the description of these men with their perfect, golden hair and faces of chiseled marble. No… his nose crooks slightly to the left, betraying either an inheritance from kin, or a bad break at some time in his life; more likely the latter given his lifestyle. His hair isn’t plastered with sweat to his forehead today, but it’s plain: Brown, and untameable. He hasn’t worn a helmet all day and it has somehow still found a way to put itself in an unruly direction. 

Truth be told, if she’s completely honest, his ears may be a bit more prominent than most humans, and she’s noticed before that he doesn’t appear to have a flattering beam of light following him around that makes him look splendid from every angle either. 

So he may be uncharacteristic in the realm of brave knights, and he may be stockier than even some of the men in his company, and not as tall as many of them, but on the other hand there is a deep slope to his shoulders that brings forth memories that do not belong to her of shoulders that did not belong to the person who noticed them. The jutting and arcing wisps of hair on his head look clean and soft in their defiance, and there is a very recent curve of his lips that she has only just noticed and it seems so very indulging and private that it is all she can do not to simply ask what he has on his mind that would elicit such an expression. 

Instead she stares because she is bewildered by these observations and the sensation they are causing to take root within her: Looking at someone and not saying anything should not oblige one to want to… run their fingers through the other person’s hair just to see what it would feel like, or to even look deeper - which is exactly what Hope does. 

Unblinking and unyielding, with the facade of their game at the forefront of her mind, the ancient spirit pours herself into the eyes of the man across from her, because it this point she either does this, or concedes defeat.

“Your eyes are starting to water,” Findos murmurs, speaking to her for the first time since they began. 

“So are yours,” she remarks absently, hardly taking to time to make the observance. Grounding herself with another careful sip of her ale, she perceives the chinking of coins being passed among hands and realizes the company is now betting on a victor. 

Another uncharacteristically soft pull of the lips is Findos’ response to her retort, and he seems to decide upon silence as well. 

“Is anyone timing this?” Someone calls out. “This has to have gone on for over five minutes now and neither one of them looks to be backing down.” 

“No need,” Hope mentions, keeping her eyes on their target. “I will win; the time it takes to do so is of no consequence.” 

There are hoots and hollers at her words, and she uses the comparable cacophony to mute out the world and find calm in the task at hand: Those eyes. 

Blue.

Perceptive. 

Does he perceive what lingers around them now, or is this just a game still? While it is to her, Hope finds that she doesn’t want it to end. 

As soon as the thought formulates in her mind she feels her heart rate rise and the skin of her palms dampen. She swallows roughly, readjusting her focus to the right portion of Findos’ forehead to give herself a slight break; an action that causes a buildup of liquid to burst free from the surface of her eyes and roll down her cheeks. 

“She’s crying!” Someone exclaims.

“Not crying,” she chides. “And also not blinking or stopping.” She readjusts herself and continues her effort, forcing herself for reasons she does not understand to plunge further into the secrets in Findos’ eyes that she knows she will be unable to take back or extract herself from later. 

She wonders if perhaps it is due to her spiritual nature that an interaction like this has such an impact upon her: She knows little of the deeper meanings behind the physical traits that living ones have and why they matter. To her, eyes were merely a tool to see, perceive, and provide a visual connection to this world. 

They were not meant to do… whatever this is. 

Unbidden behaviour as this is, she fears that Findos may be able to pick up on these conflicting feelings of intrigue, confusion, and shame, and she still cannot bring herself to look away. 

The tavern could be empty, for all she cared; for all she knew. Only the human across from her; the living one; Ser Astor Gentry Findos - he was the only thing in the world. 

More troubling than anything is the fact that she gets a similar impression from him. There is an intimacy and exclusiveness to whatever happens to be occurring between them at this moment that goes both ways.

Hope has seen love. 

She has known Love. 

The dreams of lovers are potent, strong, and built on the firmest foundations of hope itself: The concept is not new to her at all, but it is in this very moment utterly terrifying that she is staring into something much larger than herself, and she does not want it; this was meant to be a game. 

This was meant to be a game. 

She forces a grin as more tears roll down her cheeks, and she says, “This is fine,” in a voice that she hopes is cheerful in contrast to the state of her face. 

“Is it?” Findos asks quietly, his own eyes red and welled. 

Happy for the excuse of the contest to explain tears that continue to drop from her eyes that she is no longer certain are simply from staring, she nods slightly. Findos finally blinks, and with a large exhale, and settling of muscles, she does too. 

“Staring expert; I am defeated,” the Chevalier congratulates her and turns away to suss out who lost the most coin, wiping his eyes as he does this. 

Hope on the other hand sits silent, busying her hands with the motions required to take another drink of ale; she sets it on the bar after a sip though, deciding she has had quite enough. The sights and sounds of the bar around her dim and blur together as she lingers in stillness, still enveloped by the Fade, and what their contest had ignited behind the Dread Wolf’s invisible veil. 

Thin as the Veil may be in this place, things are pressing up against it that she desperately would like to ignore. It breaks her heart to do this; she gets the sense that many of them are old friends with the intent of congratulating her on something, or worse; offering their assistance with the complete sense of befuddlement she is currently consumed by. 

She watches Findos order another round of drinks, not hearing him, but feeling the place where he wraps his fingers encouragingly around her shoulder, and treats her to another strange smile. 

It was meant to be a game. 

Why does it feel like she lost? 


End file.
